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MY BOOK OF STORIES FROM THE POETS 


4 Buy from us with a golden curl ? ’ One of them held up a pair of scissors. 




MY BOOK OF 

Stories from the Poets 


Told in Prose by 
CHRISTINE CHAUNDLER 



With Twelve Illustrations in Colour by 

A. C. MICHAEL 


NEW YORK 

FUNK AND WAGNALLS COMPANY 

£ i t** *3 



mn 

Publisher 

SEP 8 1820 



'0 



GOBLIN MARKET . . . 


. Christina. Rossetti 

PAGE 

1 

A LEGEND OF BREGENZ 


• . Longfellow 

11 

THE BAILIFF’S DAUGHTER OF 

ISLINGTON Percy Reliques 

17 

THE KNIGHT’S TALE 


• • Chaucer 

21 V* 

THE INCHCAPE ROCK . 


• . Southey 

38 

THE BOY AND THE MANTLE . 


• Percy Reliques 

42 

EVANGELINE 


• . Longfellow 

47 

THE GOOSE .... 


• Percy Reliques 

6S 

VALENTINE AND URSINE 


• . Old Ballad 

73 

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS 


44 Ingolds by Legends" 

83 

THE RED CROSS KNIGHT 


• • Spenser 

88 

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER 


• • Campbell 

133 

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY . 


• Percy Reliques 

137 

THE HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN 


• • Cowper 

142 

THE PRISONER OF CH1LLON . 


• • » Byron 

152 

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL . 


• • Browning 

157 

THE RAVEN 

• 

• • Coleridge 

1G0 


VI 


Contents 


V 

v 

V 


HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM 
GHENT TO AIX ..... 

THE PRINCESS ...... 

YOUNG LOCHINVAR .... 

ENOCH ARDEN ..... 

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL 
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY Percy) Reliques 
THE ANCIENT MARINER .... Coleridge 

PARADISE AND THE PERI . Thomas Moore (“ Lalla Rookh”) 


. Browning 
. Tennyson 
Sir Walter Scott 
. Tennyson 
. Leigh Hunt 
Matthew Arnold 
. . Keats 


HORATIUS ..... 
THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 
HENRY THE LEPER 
THE SENSITIVE PLANT . 

ALICE FELL . 

THE PET LAMB .... 
COUNT GISMOND 


. . Macaulay 

. . Longfellow 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti 
Shelley 

. . Wordsworth 

. . Wordsworth 

Browning 



i 


PAGE 

163 

167 

201 

206 

226 

230 

234 

238 

245 

259 

265 

277 

295 

305 

310 

313 

136 





LIST OF PLATES 


“ ‘ BUY FROM US WITH A GOLDEN CURL ? ’ ONE OF THEM 

HELD UP A PAIR OF SCISSORS” . . . Frontispiece 


FACING PAGE 

"THE DUKE RODE IN BETWEEN THE FIGHTERS” . . 28 

"THERE WAS ONE BIG UGLY WRINKLE AT THE BOTTOM” 44 

" ‘ GO CATCH THE GOOSE AND WRING HER NECK ! ’ SHE 

CRIED ” . . . . . . . . . 70 

"THEY CAME IN SIGHT OF A STATELY PALACE — THE 

PALACE OF PRIDE” ...... 104 

" AWAY WENT GILPIN’S HORSE, AND AWAY WENT GILPIN 
ON HIS BACK, THROUGH THE STREETS OF LONDON 
TOWN” 146 V 

"HE BENT OVER HIS HORSE’S HEAD, PETTING AND 

CARESSING HIM” . ..... 164 


VI 11 


List of Plates 


FACING PAGE 


“ ‘ THEY’LL HAVE FLEET STEEDS THAT FOLLOW,’ CRIED 

YOUNG LOCHINVAR” ...... 204 

“ MARGARET SAT ON HER GOLD THRONE WITH HER 

YOUNGEST CHILD ON HER KNEE” . . . .230 

“ THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY WANDERED THROUGH THE 

FLOWER-STREWN MEADOWS TOGETHER” . . 234 

“ ‘ IT WAS AN ALBATROSS, THE BIRD OF GOOD OMEN, AND 

WE HAILED IT JOYFULLY’” ..... 248' 

“THREE TIMES HE CAME ON IN FURY, THREE TIMES HE 

TURNED BACK IN DREAD” . . . . .272 



v 


INTRODUCTION 


W HEN we consider the fact that prose is an 
easier and far more natural form of expression 
than poetry and one which, at the present 
time, is very much more common, it is rather surprising 
to find that long before any story-books were written very 
many of the old legends and fairy tales were set down in 
the form of verse. Nowadays stories are told in ordinary, 
simple language such as people use in everyday conversa- 
tion, and it very often happens that one story is considered 
better than another just because it is expressed in words 
that are easier to understand ; but in the olden days, when 
a great many of the poems whose stories are told in this 
book were w r ritten, this was not the case. 

The first story to be published in ordinary language 
was “ Robinson Crusoe,’ * which I expect you have read. 
It w r as written by Daniel Defoe in the year 1715. But 
it w r as not until twenty-five years after that another w r as 
written (“ Pamela,” by Samuel Richardson) that marked 
the beginning of story-writing in the form which now 
prevails, and, because of the difficulties of printing, it w r as 
not until fairly recent times that the writing of stories 
became at all common. 

Long before this time, however, poetry enjoyed a 
great deal of popularity, and very many tales, which in 


IX 


Introduction 

modern times would have been written in prose, were, 
instead, set down in verse. There are several reasons for 
this, and they are not really hard to understand. 

The first is that, as I have already said, printing was 
a very great difficulty, and, in fact, before Caxton set up 
his press at Westminster in 1474, there was no such 
thing. The result of this was that everything had to be 
copied out by hand by the monks, and although a certain 
amount of this was done, and done very beautifully with 
wonderful drawings down the sides of the sheets and 
beautiful colour effects that were known as illuminations, 
yet naturally nothing of very great length could be under- 
taken, and, moreover, they could not afford to do anything 
that was not especially good. So, because nobody was 
very much impressed by ordinary simple language in those 
days, unless it happened to be in Latin, the monks only 
bothered to copy out poetry. 

There is another reason. Very many of the old poems 
were originally songs, sung by travelling musicians who 
went by the name of “ Troubadours.” There are a great 
many stories that might be told of these old minstrels, 
and I wish I had time to tell you some of them, for they 
are well worth hearing. The troubadours make some of 
the most romantic figures in history, and I have often 
thought that if I had the chance of being carried back 
to some earlier age, I should choose to visit the castle of 
some old Norman baron at the time when he and his 
family and vassals were seated round the huge log fire, 
listening to a stirring song of brave knights and beautiful 
princesses sung by a minstrel in queer fantastic garb, who 
sat accompanying himself on a harp. 

Many of the songs sung by the troubadours have been 


Introduction 

handed down for several hundreds of years, and though 
they have probably changed a good deal in the course of 
time, yet the substance of them is the same, and several 
of the tales in this book are founded upon them. 

There are various other reasons why so much poetry 
was written in the olden days, but I have not time to 
dw'ell on those now. It is enough to say that the habit 
of poetry became so popular that nobody thought of 
writing a story save as a poem or possibly a play. And 
what wonderful poems they sometimes were ! For even 
their poetry in those times was quite different from ours. 
They used long words that only the people who write 
dictionaries have ever heard of, and they wrote sentences 
that were so tangled up that even the very cleverest folk 
found them hard to understand. 

In more modern times, since story writing has become 
common, this art of telling tales in poetry has almost died 
away, but it flourished until the beginning of the last 
century, and it is only in quite recent years that it has 
nearly disappeared. As I have said, many of these poems 
are so long and so difficult to understand that young people 
do not care to read them, but all the same the stories they 
tell are very beautiful and interesting, so that it seems a 
pity that you should miss hearing them altogether. That 
is one reason why this book has been published : so that 
you may read in simple language the tales which form the 
theme of some of the finest poems ever written in English ; 
and also, later on, when you are old enough to under- 
stand and appreciate poetry, you will perhaps want to 
read these stories in their original form, and then you 
will be glad that first of all you have read them as they 
are presented here, for when you know what they are 


XI 


Introduction 

about you will be far more able to enjoy the language in 
which they are written. 

There are other things, too, about this book which 
may interest you, and not the least of these are the lives 
of the poets whose stories are told. There are so many 
of them that we are only able to touch on one or two. 
Perhaps, because he was the youngest and because in some 
ways he was the most brilliant, it might be interesting to 
tell you one or two things in connection with Keats. 

I have said that he was the youngest because he was 
only twenty-six when he died in Rome in the year 1821 , 
so that all his great works were written at a comparatively 
early age. 

John Keats started life as an apprentice to a surgeon 
at Enfield, and when twenty-two published his first 
volume of poems, which was very unfavourably criticised 
in the literary magazines of the day. There are some 
people who say that these adverse criticisms were the 
cause of Keats’ early death, but really this is untrue, for 
he was far too great a man to be disturbed by things of 
that sort, and actually he died of consumption. 

The most beautiful poem Keats ever wrote was called 
“ Endymion,” which some day, no doubt, you will read; 
and quite one of the finest is “La Belle Dame Sans 
Merci,” the story of which you will find in this book. 

Another poet whose life contains many points of 
interest is Alfred Tennyson. Tennyson had two brothers, 
both of whom were poets like himself, and although some 
of their work is very good, yet he was by far the greatest 
of the three. His first book, to which his brother 
Charles also contributed, was called “Poems by Two 
Brothers,” and although it is a work that is very little 
zii 


Introduction 

known now, yet there is much in it that shows promise 
of the wonderful poetry that was to come. 

Some day you must read the poems, 44 Enoch Arden ” 
and 44 The Princess,” the stories of both of which are 
given here, for it will afford you an interesting example 
of contrast in styles. 

Tennyson was only forty-one when he became Poet 
Laureate, which, as I expect you know, means the first 
poet in the land, and he held this position until his 
death, which occurred a few years after he accepted a 
peerage. 

Now, although as a rule poetry is serious, yet it has its 
lighter moments, and some of the best examples of light 
poetry are to be found in the 44 Ingoldsby Legends,” by 
R. H. Barham, who wrote under the name of Thomas 
Ingoldsby. At the age of twelve this clever poet had his 
right arm crippled in a coach accident, and after this, 
seeing that he could no longer play games like other boys, 
he devoted himself to his studies, and later on gave to 
the world a poem that will always be remembered for 
its humour : “ The Jackdaw of Rheims.” 

Although nearly all poets whose works are mentioned 
in this book are English, yet Longfellow, whose 4 4 Evan- 
geline ” and 44 The Courtship of Miles Standish ” appear 
here, is an American. He was directly descended from 
members of that little band of pilgrims which sailed to 
America in the Mayflower so many years ago and formed 
the origin of the present United States of America. 

When, at the age of fourteen, Longfellow entered 
Bowdoin College, Brunswick, he showed great signs of 
intellectual power, and this seemed to increase throughout 
his days as a student. At the age of eighteen he was 
xiii 


Introduction 

appointed professor of modern languages in his college, 
a truly remarkable feat in one so young. 

Longfellow, was always very fond of children, and he 
has written a lot of poetry about them, including a little 
piece called “ The Children’s Hour,” which was written 
about his own two daughters, and you would do well to 
read it if you have not already done so. 

Although Longfellow was successful as a poet, yet he 
had an unhappy life, for his first wife died after they had 
been married only four years, and his second did not live 
long ; this sad fact can be very often noticed in his work. 

Almost at the end of this book you will find a poem 
called “ The Ancient Mariner,” by Samuel Taylor 
Coleridge. This was one in a book which he wrote, 
together with Wordsworth, called “ The Lyrical Ballads,” 
and, as you will learn later, it had a very great effect upon 
the literature of the day. 

Coleridge and Wordsworth and Southey formed what 
are now known as the Lake poets, because they lived 
close together near the lakes of Cumberland. Although 
Wordsworth is probably the best known of the three, and 
Southey, because of the book he wrote called “ The Life 
of Nelson,” comes next, yet there are many people who 
prefer Coleridge as a poet. 

“The Ancient Mariner” is a poem that will never 
be forgotten, not so much for the story itself as for the 
style in which it is written ; and this peculiar fascination 
is to be seen in many other of Coleridge’s works. 

One of the most popular short poems in English is the 
one by Sir Walter Scott about young Lochinvar, the story 
of which is given here. Scott is a member of that very 
rare class of writer who has attained fame both as a 


XIV 


Introduction 

poet and as a novelist, and who is equally great in each 
respect. 

He started his literary career as a poet, and produced 
many famous works, including 44 The Lay of the Last 
Minstrel,” “ Marmion,” “The Lady of the Lake,” and 
a number of others, and for a time he was the greatest 
narrative poet of his day. Then another came to the fore 
whose fame threatened to eclipse that of Scott. This was 
Lord Byron, the writer of 44 Childe Harold,” 44 Don 
Juan,” 44 Manfred,” and, amongst many others, the 
poem whose story is given in this volume, 44 The Prisoner 
of Chillon.” 

Byron’s .work became so popular that Scott realised 
that in this particular sphere he was unable to hold his 
own, so, nothing daunted, he turned his attention to 
another field. Ten years previously it happened that he 
had started a historical romance which he had put away 
only half finished ; now, hunting about in an old lumber 
room, he came across the old manuscript, and, completing 
it, had it published anonymously in the year 1814. This 
was 44 Waverley,” and was the first of a long series known 
as the 44 Waverley Novels,” which is now famous all over 
the world. Some day, if you have not already done so, 
you should read 44 Ivanhoe,” and 4 4 Rob Roy,” and 44 The 
Talisman.” You will find that although they may look 
44 stodgy,” they are really just as exciting and far more 
interesting than many of the books written nowadays. 

Scott was in many ways as brave as the characters he 
loved to picture, for he spent the last ten years of his life 
in paying off the immense debt incurred by his publishers, 
who went bankrupt, and but for his unceasing toil to do 
this he would no doubt have lived much longer. 


XV 


Introduction 


Before I come to the end of this rather long intro- 
duction there is just one other point I would like to make 
clear. This is about the “Percy Reliques.” You will 
see, if you look in the “ Contents,” that a number of 
the poems of which the stories are given come from this 
source. 

The “ Percy Reliques ” are a collection of old Border 
songs, poems and legends, gathered together in 1765 by 
an old bishop ; they contain many of the finest examples 
of old English poetry. 


MY BOOK OP 

STORIES PROM THE POETS 


Goblin Market 

T HE goblins lived in the dark wood beyond the 
little rush-fringed brook where the village girls, 
at the close of day, came to fill their pitchers. 
All day long the little men hid themselves in the depths 
of the wood, but as soon as the sun set they came trooping 
down the glen through which the brook ran, carrying in 
their hands baskets of wonderful fruit, and calling out : 

“ Come buy our orchard fruits, 

Come buy, come buy.” 

Nobody had ever seen such wonderful fruits as the 
goblins brought to their nightly market — apples, quinces, 
lemons, oranges, beautiful juicy cherries, melons, rasp- 
berries, peaches, mulberries, apricots, strawberries, great 
bunches of black grapes — every kind of fruit that ever 
ripened, summer or winter, the goblins brought with them 
each night to the glen. All the night through they danced 
and sang and feasted, but when the morning came they 
gathered up what remained of their fruit and trooped off 
into the wood to wait till evening came again. 

But though the goblin fruit was so beautiful to look at, 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

the village people did not dare to buy it. The girls of the 
village .who came to draw water from the brook shuddered 
when they heard the cry of the little men ; and hastily 
filling their pitchers they would hurry back to their homes. 
For the goblin fruit was poisonous and brought terrible 
grief and harm to the unwary person who ate of it. One 
moonlight night one of the village girls had met the little 
men and had been tempted to eat of the fruits they had 
pressed upon her. Never had she tasted such delicious 
fruit, and she had eaten greedily of it, but she had paid 
dearly for her pleasure. Once having partaken of the 
goblins’ magic fruit, all other fruit seemed to her to be 
sour and bitter. She longed and longed to taste the fruit 
again, but though she had searched for the little goblin 
men by day and night, she had never seen nor heard them 
any more. Others had heard their cry, and if they had 
stayed too late at the brook had seen the quaint little 
figures as usual, hurrying through the trees to the glen to 
hold their nightly revels. But to her who had tasted of 
their fruit they had become invisible for ever. She might 
never see nor hear them, nor taste their food again. She 
grew thin and ill and miserable, consumed all the time by 
a terrible thirst and longing for the magic fruit, until, 
when the first snow fell, she died. 

In a little house on the edge of the moor, close to the 
wood and the village, two sisters lived alone. Many of 
the village girls were pretty, but none were so pretty as 
these two. None had such curly golden hair, such danc- 
ing eyes, such rosy cheeks and dimpled mouths as Laura 
and Lizzie. The two loved each other dearly and were 
scarcely ever separated. Early in the morning they rose 
up from their beds, fresh and sweet as the heather that 
2 


Goblin Market 

grew around their cottage door. They fetched the honey 
from the hives which they kept in the garden, milked their 
cow and fed the poultry, set the house to rights, churned 
the butter, whipped up the cream, and kneaded dainty 
white cakes of sweetest wheaten bread. All day long 
they were happy and busy, and when the evening came 
they would take their pitchers down to the brook for 
water, as the other girls did. 

One evening they were late in setting out for the brook, 
and before they had filled their pitchers they heard the song 
of the little goblin men as they came hurrying through 
the wood : 

“ Come*buy our orchard fruits, 

Come buy, come buy.” 

44 Hurry, Laura,’’ cried Lizzie as she heard it. 44 We 
must not listen to the song of the goblins. Fill your 
pitcher quickly and let us hasten home.” 

But Laura did not seem to hear what her sister was 
saying; she was gazing at the goblins as they trooped 
through the wood. It was the first time she had ever been 
so close to them, and she thought that she had never seen 
such curious little creatures. 

44 Look, look, Lizzie!” she cried. 44 Did you ever 
see such funny little men? And, oh, look at the beautiful 
fruits they are carrying ! What a wonderful orchard it 
must be where such fine fruits can ripen all together.” 

44 Laura, Laura ! You must not look ! ” cried Lizzie 
in fear and distress. 44 Shut your eyes, quick, and come 
home.” And, putting her fingers in her ears so that she 
should not hear the tempting cry, Lizzie scrambled up 
the bank and ran back to the little cottage beside the moor, 

3 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

too frightened even to look round to see if her sister was 
following her. 

But Laura stayed still by the brook, gazing in wonder 
at the little men ; and when the goblins saw her they came 
crowding round, holding up their baskets and begging her 
to buy. 

4 4 See our rosy-cheeked apples ! Look at our fine 
plums ! Try our grapes and cherries ! Taste our beauti- 
ful juicy melons! ” they clamoured, and Laura’s mouth 
began to water as she looked at the wonderful fruits. 

44 Good Folk,” she said, 44 1 have no money. I have 
neither copper nor silver in my purse, and as for gold — all 
the gold that I possess is on the furze bushes that grow 
amongst the heather. Alas ! I cannot buy your fruit ! ” 

But the goblins only pressed closer around her. 

44 You have much gold upon your head,” they cried. 
44 Buy from us with a golden curl? ” And one of them 
held up a pair of scissors towards her. 

Laura could resist the temptation no longer. She seized 
the scissors, clipped off one long curl, and stretched out 
her hands for the fruit the goblins showered upon her. 
Apples and oranges, melons and dewberries, strawberries, 
apricots, cherries and peaches — eagerly she took them, 
eagerly she ate them, until she could eat no more. Then 
she flung away the empty rinds, gathered up one cherry 
stone and turned homewards, scarcely knowing whether it 
was night or day, so dazed and intoxicated was she by 
the wonderful feast. 

Lizzie met her at the gate, full of anxious questioning. 

44 Dear, where have you been? You should not stay 
so late!” she said reproachfully. 44 Remember poor 
Jeanie, and how she met the goblin men in the moonlight, 

4 


Goblin Market 

and afterwards pined and pined away until she died. You 
must never, never stay so late again.” 

“Nay, sister, hush! ” cried Laura gaily. “I have 
eaten and eaten, and never in my life have I tasted such 
marvellous fruit ! To-morrow night I will go again and 
will bring some back to you — delicious plums and cherries, 
melons and peaches and grapes, such as you never even 
dreamt of ! My mouth waters still at the thought of them. 
Let us go to bed at once so that the morning may come the 
more quickly. I do not know how I shall endure to wait 
until to-morrow night to taste those fruits again.” 

The two sisters went into the cottage, and when they 
had had their supper, they lay down side by side in their 
little \vhite bed, their golden heads close together on the 
pillow. Laura fell asleep happy and smiling, but Lizzie 
lay awake for a long while, sad at heart and full of anxious 
forebodings, for she could not help remembering Jeanie 
and her terrible fate. What, oh what, if the same fate 
should overtake her sister? 

The next morning the two rose up and went about 
their household duties, Lizzie, now recovered from her 
fears, happy and singing over her work as usual, Laura, 
as though in a dream, longing all the time for the night 
to come. And when at last the sun set and they started 
out for the brook, Laura’s excitement rose to fever-heat. 
She hurried on ahead of her sister, laughing and dancing 
for joy that the time of the goblins’ market had come 
again. 

They filled their pitchers with fresh water, and Lizzie 
gathered an armful of the yellow flags that grew beside 
the stream. Then she picked up her pitcher and turned 
to her sister. 


6 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“ Come, Laura,” she said, “ the daylight is dying fast. 
Birds and beasts are gone to rest — it is time that we, too, 
were away.” 

But Laura would not leave the glen yet. She was 
listening for the cry of the goblins ; and though the dew 
was falling and the wind was growing chilly, she still stood 
beside the rushes that fringed the little stream. 

Lizzie, who was growing more and more frightened 
at the lateness of the hour, urged her again and again 
to come home. 

“Oh, Laura, come! ” she cried. “I hear the fruit 
call, but I dare not look. The stars are beginning to 
shine, the daylight is almost gone. Hark ! The goblins 
are drawing nearer and nearer — oh, please, dear Laura, 
come away ! ” 

Laura’s heart stood still with terror when she found 
that her sister could hear the goblins’ cry. She strained 
her ears to hear and shaded her eyes to see, but never a 
glimpse could she catch of the quaint little hobbling 
figures, nor hear the faintest echo of their nightly cry : 

“ Come buy our orchard fruits, 

Come buy, come buy.” 

She said not a word, but, picking up her pitcher, she 
followed her sister homewards, all thought and feeling 
gone except for a terrible longing and thirst for the fruit 
she would never see or taste again. She sat down to 
supper in silent misery, but she could not eat. She crept 
into bed, but she could not sleep. She rose up as 
usual in the morning, but she could not work. Day by 
day she grew frailer and weaker. Her hair turned grey, 
her cheeks grew white and thin, her eyes dull and sunken, 


Goblin Market 

until it seemed as though she were an old, old woman, 
instead of the fair young girl she had been only a short 
time ago. 

She planted the cherry stone which she had brought 
from the goblins’ feast in the sunniest corner of the gar- 
den, and watered it and watched it in the faint hope that 
it might grow into a tree and one day bear fruit. But it 
never did. And as even this last hope faded, Laura grew 
more and more miserable and wretched. All her old happy 
life was over. She no more tended the house, or kneaded 
the bread, or brought water from the brook. All day 
long she sat in the chimney corner, brooding and listless, 
eating nothing, longing for the fruit she might not taste. 

Lizzie, in grief and despair, watched her sister fading 
away before her eyes, yet she knew not what to do. Was 
there no cure for the sickness caused by eating the poison- 
ous fruit, she asked herself in desperation ? She had heard 
people say that if the sick person could only taste of the 
fruit a second time there was just a chance that it would 
break the dreadful spell. But how was Laura to taste 
the fruit a second time since she could neither see nor hear 
the goblins any more ? Even if she — Lizzie — were to go 
to the glen for her, it would be useless. The goblins 
would never part with their fruit save to those who would 
sit and eat it with them ; and if so much as one drop of 
the magic juice should pass her lips she would fall under 
the dreadful spell herself, without having done any good 
to her sister. No, she dare not go to bargain with the 
little evil men. It was too terrible a risk to run for such 
a very doubtful good. 

But Laura grew daily weaker and frailer until she 
appeared to be almost at death’s door; and at last it 
7 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

seemed to Lizzie that if she did not wish to lose her sister 
altogether, she must at least try to see what she could do, 
in spite of the dreadful risk she would run. Bravely she 
put all thought of her own danger out of her mind, and 
determined to think only of her sister. Then, putting 
a silver penny into her purse and kissing Laura tenderly, 
she set out one evening as the dusk was creeping up over 
the moor, halted at the brook, and for the first time in her 
life began to look and listen for the goblins. 

The little men were already at their market, and, 
seeing Lizzie watching them, they set up their cry : 

“ Come buy our orchard fruits, 

Come buy, come buy.” 

and then, as this time Lizzie did not run away, they came 
swarming around her, shouting and jostling and elbowing 
one another, begging her to buy their fruit. 

Lizzie threw them her silver penny and held out her 
apron. 

“Good Folk,’’ she said, “give me as much as my 
money will buy.” 

“You may have as much as you will,” said the goblins, 
“ but we cannot put the fruit into your apron. You must 
eat it with us here. Fruits such as these would spoil if 
you carried them away. Sit down and feast with us, and 
then you need not buy them — you shall be our honoured 
guest.” 

“That I cannot do,” said Lizzie. “One waits for 
me at home, sad and sick and lonely. It is for her that 
I would buy. Give me of your fruit and let me go.” 

“No, no, no ! ” cried the goblins. “You may not 
carry it away.” And they began to scowl and shake their 


Goblin Market 

fists at Lizzie until she trembled with fear. Yet still she 
would not yield to their persuasions. 

“ Give me of your fruit,” she said again, “ and let me 
go. Or else give me back my silver penny.” And she 
came a step nearer as though to take it from them. 

Then the goblins gave a scream of anger and flung 
themselves furiously upon her. They pulled her hair and 
tore her gown, stamped upon her feet and beat her with 
their hands. Scratching, screaming and dancing with 
rage, they clustered round her, and while some held her 
hands fast, others pressed their fruit against her lips, trying 
to force her to eat of it. Lizzie struggled bravely to resist 
them ; and though the goblins scratched and pinched her, 
cuffed her and kicked her, yet she never uttered a sound. 
She stood in the midst of the wicked little creatures with 
her lips tightly closed, not daring to open them for one 
moment, lest the little men should succeed in cramming 
some of their fruit into her mouth. The juice trickled 
down her face and neck ; and in spite of the pain she was 
enduring, her heart beat fast with joy as she felt it, for 
she began to see now how her sister might once again 
taste of the goblins’ magic fruit. 

At last, worn out by her brave resistance, the goblins 
flung back the silver penny into Lizzie’s face. Then, 
snatching up their baskets, they fled into the wood, still 
shouting angrily as they went. Lizzie did not stay to see 
the last of them. As soon as they set her free she sprang 
up the bank, tore across the heather to the cottage, threw 
open the door, and, breathless with excitement, flung her- 
self on her knees beside her sister. 

“Laura, Laura, kiss me! ” she cried. “Kiss me 
quickly, quickly ! Never mind my bruises — kiss me and 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

taste the goblins’ fruit once more ! For your sake I have 
been to the goblin market, and braved the wicked little 
goblin men.” 

Laura started up and flung her arms around her sister. 

“Oh, Lizzie, you haven’t ?” she cried in anguish. 
“ Have you too eaten of the dreadful fruit? Must your 
life, too, be wasted? ” And overcome with grief and 
remorse she pressed Lizzie to her, and kissed her again and 
again, while for the first time since she had eaten of the 
forbidden fruit, tears of penitent sorrow fell from her 
eyes. Then, as the magic juices touched her lips, she 
sprang to her feet with a scream, for they burnt and stung 
her, and changed the terrible thirst and longing into bitter 
loathing and hate. All at once she realised how foolish 
and .wrong she had been to taste the goblins’ fruit, and 
with cries and tears she paced up and down the room, until 
at last she fell unconscious on the floor. 

Lizzie carried her to her bed, and all night long she 
watched beside her as she lay white and still upon her 
pillow. Was it life or death? Had her toil and trouble 
been in vain? Would her sister die after all? She fanned 
Laura’s face and bathed her forehead, smoothed back the 
long soft hair, and waited anxiously for the morning. And 
when the first birds chirped about the eaves, and the dawn- 
ing light crept through the cottage window, Laura awoke 
— no longer sick and ill and weak and grey, but the gay, 
happy, laughing Laura of old, with rosy cheeks and shining 
eyes, and sunny golden hair. 

By her bravery and devotion Lizzie had won her sister 
back to life — the goblins’ wicked spell was broken ! 


10 


A Legend of Bregenz 

I AKE CONSTANCE lies girt round with rugged 
mountains, like a mirror in which are reflected 
the white clouds which pass silently over the 
mountain-tops, the blue of the sky at noonday, and the 
stars which bend down over the water w T hen darkness 
descends upon the lake. Gazing down into the deep, cool 
waters, you might almost think that a piece of heaven 
itself lies on our earth below. 

High above the lake, on the Tyrol side of the water, 
stands the quaint old town of Bregenz, as it has stood for 
a thousand years or more. The towers and battlements 
of the city cast their shadow upon the lake, and many are 
the strange sights they have seen, many the stories the 
silent stones could tell if they had but speech. There is 
one legend especially which is known to all who live in 
Bregenz — known maybe to the silent lake and the valley 
and the mountains themselves — the story of how the town 
of Bregenz was saved from her enemies three hundred 
years ago. 

Amongst the pleasant valleys of Switzerland, far from 
her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid lived and worked. 
She had left her home in Bregenz long years ago to serve 
strange masters for her daily bread. It was so long now 
since she had left that she had almost forgotten she had 
ever lived in another country. Her master’s family was 
11 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

very kind to her. The Swiss people seemed friends ; she 
had learnt to speak their language perfectly. When she 
led the cattle out to pasture every morning she no longer 
looked and wondered in which direction Bregenz lay, as 
she had been used to look and wonder when she first 
came to the new land. She no longer spoke of her town ; 
her Tyrol home was faded in the mist of years ; and though 
she sometimes heard rumours of war and strife she paid 
little heed to them. Each day she rose up calm and con- 
tented, ready for a fresh day of toil. Only when her 
master’s children gathered round her knee at close of day 
would she sometimes sing them songs of her own land ; 
save for then, and when she knelt to say her prayers morn- 
ing and evening, the speech of her childhood never passed 
her lips. 

So she dwelt, the peaceful valley growing daily more 
and more homelike to her. But one year, as it grew 
towards harvest time, a great unrest seemed to come 
amongst the people with whom she lived. The golden 
corn was ripe, yet the farmers did not seem to heed. They 
paced up and down all day, deep in anxious talk. The 
men appeared stern and altered, the women fearful and 
anxious. Work was neglected. Spinning-wheels stood 
idle, flax was unspun, the very children seemed affected 
by the spirit of unrest, and were almost afraid to go alone 
to school or to their play. 

One day matters appeared to come to a climax. Out 
in the meadows the men of the village walked up and down 
in eager conclave with strangers, discussing some secret 
plan, every now and then pausing to watch a strange, 
uncertain gleam that might have been lances hidden 
amongst the trees below. And at evening the secret was 

12 


A Legend of Bregenz 

known. The villagers met together to feast and rejoice, 
as though they had received some great news, and when 
all were assembled the elder of the village rose up, his glass 
in his hand. 

“ Drink with me ! ” he cried. “ Drink to the down- 
fall of an accursed land ! All is prepared. The surprise 
attack will be launched to-night. Ere one more day has 
passed Bregenz — our foemen’s stronghold — Bregenz shall 
be our own ! ” 

A ringing cheer from the men greeted this announce- 
ment. The women shrank in terror at hearing their worst 
fears realised. Yet even though their hearts were torn 
with grief at the coming parting from their sons and hus- 
bands and brothers, their bosoms were filled with pride in 
their men, with joy at their foes’ approaching downfall. 
But one woman was there who could feel neither joy nor 
pride at the elder’s announcement. One poor Tyrol 
maiden felt death within her heart. 

Once more before her eyes rose the picture of Bregenz. 
Once more she could see the towers and battlements of 
the city. All at once she realised that the friends beside 
her were her country’s foes. The days of her bygone 
childhood, the faces of her kinsfolk, the once familiar out- 
line of the mountains around Lake Constance came back 
to her memory : Bregenz reclaimed her as her own. 
Around her the cheers rang out again and again, but 
nothing did she hear or heed. Gone were the green Swiss 
valleys, the pastures where she fed the cattle day by day. 
Before her eyes was but one vision, in her heart was but 
one cry, which said : 

4 4 Go forth, save Bregenz. And then, if need be, 
die ! ” 


13 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Unperceived, she left the feast room, and sped on 
noiseless feet to the shed where stood the horses and the 
cattle which she tended. She loosed the strong white 
charger which she had taught to feed from her hand, and 
led him out of the stable. Steadily and methodically she 
saddled and bridled him, then mounted and turned his 
head towards her native land. 

Out into the darkness she urged her steed, and faster 
and still more fast the smooth grass flew beneath the 
horse’s feet. The chestnut wood outside the village was 
passed, but still she urged the horse on to greater efforts. 
There was not a moment to lose. If Bregenz was to be 
saved she must bring her people news of the surprise 
planned by their enemies as speedily as possible. Even 
now it might be too late — and at the thought she raised 
her face to Heaven in supplication. Why was her horse 
so slow, she asked herself in agony. But it was only to 
her fevered imagination that the pace seemed slow; for 
scarcely the wind itself could pass them as they flew. 

“Faster — faster! ” she cried aloud; and even as the 
cry broke from her lips the church bells began to chime. 
She counted the strokes, and as eleven boomed forth a 
groan burst from her lips. 

“Oh, God,” she prayed, “help Bregenz, and bring 
me there in time ! ” 

On and on the horse and rider galloped; and now, 
louder than the ringing bells, louder than the lowing of the 
startled kine that fled before their approach, the rushing 
of the Rhine river fell on the maiden’s ears. The white 
horse drew back in terror as he reached the river’s brink. 
Surely his rider could never mean him to attempt to ford 
that roaring torrent ? 


u 


A Legend of Bregenz 

But the brave girl leant down and patted the horse’s 
head. The bank was steep and high, and in the dark- 
ness it might well mean death to try to cross the river 
at this uncertain spot. Yet the maid’s heart never fal- 
tered. It was the only chance for Bregenz — and she 
forced her steed forward. Staggering, he took the plunge ; 
and then the two were engulfed in the dark waters. 

The maid tried to pierce the blackness ahead of her, 
but she could see nothing. It was hopeless to attempt to 
guide her horse through the torrent, she must leave all 
to him ; and throwing the rein loose, she sat calmly in the 
saddle, waiting for what might come. 

Bravely did the white horse struggle to breast the 
water which dashed above his mane ; nobly, gallantly he 
strove to force his way through the foam, as though he 
knew what great issues depended on his struggle. And 
at last he reached the farther shore and bore his burden 
up the steep bank to safety. And there, in the far 
distance, shone out the lights of home ! 

The worst part of their journey was over now, but 
there was still need for speed, and soon the horse and his 
rider w r ere rushing onward again towards the heights of 
Bregenz which towered above them. And just as the 
midnight bell was about to ring in Bregenz they reached 
the gate, and soldiers and watchmen came running out 
to hear the news the brave girl had brought. 

Bregenz was saved ! Before daylight her battlements 
were manned, and bold defiance greeted the army that 
marched on the town next morning at daw r n. She was 
saved by the humble serving-maid w r ho had dared to risk 
her own life to bring the news which alone could save 
the town. 


15 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Three hundred years have passed, but upon the hill-side 
an old stone gateway rises to do honour still to the brave 
maiden. The women of Bregenz sit under its shade with 
their knitting, and often they tell the story of the maid’s 
brave ride, while over their heads is engraved in quaint old 
carving a statue of the charger and his rider. 

And when, to guard old Bregenz, 

By gateway, street and tower, 

The warder paces all night long, 

And calls each passing hour ; 

“ Nine,” “ ten,” “ eleven,” he cries aloud, 

And then (Oh, crown of Fame !) 

When midnight pauses in the skies, 

He calls the maiden’s name ! 


16 


The Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington 

O NCE there lived a youth, a squire’s son, who was 
dearly loved by his parents. He was heir to great 
estates, and, as befitted one of his position, he was 
expected to make a wealthy marriage. But instead of 
courting some maiden with a fortune equal to his own, 
the young man fell deeply in love w r ith the daughter of 
the Bailiff of Islington, who, however fair and sweet and 
desirable she might be, was certainly not the bride his 
father and mother would have chosen for him. 

And, as might have been expected, when the young 
man’s friends and relations discovered how dearly he loved 
the bailiff’s daughter they were very angry indeed. They 
thought perhaps that if he were separated from the 
maiden he would forget his love for her, so they sent him 
far away to London town, where, in spite of his wealth 
and future expectations, they bound him to a tradesman 
as apprentice for seven years. 

“ In seven years’ time,” his father and mother said, 
“he will doubtless have quite recovered from his foolish 
fancy for this girl.” 

But they were wrong. The squire’s son did not 
recover from his fancy. On the contrary, his love seemed 
to grow stronger with the passing of the years. He was 
bound by law not to leave his place until the time of his 
apprenticeship had passed ; but although he could not see 


My Book: of Stories from the Poets 

her he did not forget the bailiff’s daughter. He thought 
of her day and night, and he made up his mind that as 
soon as he was free he would go at once to the little village 
of Islington and renew his suit for the hand of the maiden 
whom he loved so truly. 

The bailiff’s daughter was equally faithful. She too 
waited patiently till the seven long years had passed. And 
then, when they were nearly over, she determined to leave 
her home and go to the great town of London, to see if 
her lover was still true to her. 

So one day, when there was a fair on in the village 
and no one would notice her absence, because it was the 
custom for all the maids and young men to go out and 
dance and play on the village green, the bailiff’s daughter 
dressed herself in ragged attire, disguised her face as well 
as she could, and set out to walk to London. 

She trudged bravely along the high road. The sun 
shone down fiercely upon her, for it was the height of 
summer, and, presently, growing weary and footsore, she 
sat herself down upon a green bank to rest awhile. She 
watched the people riding by, and perhaps she wished that 
she too had a horse to carry her to her journey’s end, for 
she had still many miles to walk before she would reach 
London. 

Now it happened that this was the very last day of the 
seven years, and as the bailiff’s daughter sat by the road- 
side her true love came riding by. He was free of his 
apprenticeship at last, and now he was riding home again 
to seek for the maiden whom he loved. 

The bailiff’s daughter recognised him at once, but the 
young man did not recognise her, for she was completely 
disguised in her ragged clothes. For a moment after she 
18 


The Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington 

had recognised him the maiden could neither speak nor 
move for joy and surprise ; then, with a colour so red, she 
started up and caught at her lover’s bridle-rein. She saw 
he took her for some beggar-maid, and a plan came into 
her head to discover whether he still was faithful and true. 

She held out her hand, pretending to be in very truth 
the beggar she appeared. 

44 One penny — I pray you, kind sir, give me one 
penny,” she said, trying to disguise her voice lest he 
should recognise it. “ Only a penny — you will never miss 
it, and it will ease me of much pain.” 

The squire’s son drew up his horse. He was ever kind 
and pitiful to poor people, and something about the 
beggar-girl seemed familiar to him. Had he seen her 
before, he wondered, and as he put his hand into his 
pocket, feeling for a coin, he looked at her searchingly. 

“ Before I give you a penny, sweetheart,” he said, 44 I 
pray you tell me where you were born.” 

44 I was born at Islington, sir,” answered the pre* 
tended beggar-maid. Then, renewing her supplicating 
tone, she added whiningly : 44 Where I have had many a 
scorn and unkind word.” 

44 At Islington ! ” cried the young man excitedly. “ I 
pray you tell me then if you know the bailiff’s daughter 
of Islington ” 

“The bailiff’s daughter of Islington!” interrupted 
the girl. 4 4 Why, yes, I know her, or, rather, knew her 
— for she is dead, sir, long ago ! ” 

The squire’s son gave a bitter cry, and bowed his head 
in his hands. Then he roused himself and sprang im- 
petuously to the ground, flinging his horse’s bridle-rein 
into the maiden’s hand. 


19 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“ If she be dead, take my horse, and my saddle and 
bridle also ! ” he cried. “ I have no further need of them 
now. All my joy in life is over. I will flee to some far 
country where no man shall know me! ” 

The bailiff’s daughter heard these words with joy and 
happiness in her heart. She sprang after the impulsive 
young man, who was already turning to go, and laid her 
hand on his arm. 

“ Stay, oh stay, thou goodly youth,” she said, half 
laughing, half crying in her joy, and dropping all 
pretence of disguise. 4 4 Your true love is not dead. She 
is here before you, alive and well, and ready to be your 
bride.” 

The squire’s son turned round and caught the maiden’s 
hand. He stared at her long and earnestly ; then his face 
lightened and he flung his arms about her, clasping her 
close to his breast. It was indeed the maiden whom he 
loved, dearer than ever for the long absence. And now 
there was nothing to hinder him from making her his wife. 

And so the bailiff’s daughter of Islington found her 
own true love again. 


The Knight’s Tale 

T HERE was once a Duke of Athens named 
Theseus who was renowned throughout the world 
for his bravery and goodness. He had fought 
many battles and won many great victories, and it was 
while he was returning in triumph to Athens from one 
of his victorious campaigns that the story I am going to 
tell you about begins. 

Just before Duke Theseus reached the town, which 
was all decorated with garlands of flowers to greet him, 
there met him a company of women, dressed in black 
robes, and weeping and mourning pitifully. Theseus 
stopped and asked them the meaning of their sorrow, and 
they told him that they had come from Thebes, a city 
which had lately been conquered by a tyrant named 
Creon. These ladies were all the wives of great lords 
who had died during the siege of the city, and now 
Creon, in his cruelty and tyranny, would not even suffer 
their husbands’ dead bodies to be buried. And when the 
wives of these nobles had come to him and begged him 
to allow them to be buried, he had treated the ladies 
with such indignity that at last they had fled from the 
city, and now had come to Theseus to implore him to 
revenge their wrongs upon Creon. 

Theseus was filled with indignation when he heard 
the ladies’ sad story, and he swore an oath that he would 

21 




My Book of Stories from the Poets 

not enter into Athens until he had taken vengeance upon 
the cruel Creon. Gathering his knights about him, he 
rode at once to Thebes, where he fought with Creon, 
and slew him in fair and open fight. Then he ordered 
that all the dead bodies of the nobles whom Creon had 
killed should be buried with great pomp and ceremony, 
and he restored to the ladies who had asked his help all 
the houses and lands which belonged to them by right. 

Amongst the knights who had fought for Creon were 
two young men of noble lineage named Palamon and 
Arcite. They had been friends from childhood and loved 
one another dearly, and they had fought side by side in 
the battle against Theseus. Both of them had been 
wounded and left for dead upon the field, but after the 
fighting was over they were discovered by the soldiers 
of Theseus and found to be still alive, and when the Duke 
rode back to Athens he carried the two young knights 
with him as captives, and shut them up in a high tower 
in his castle grounds, where he decreed that they should 
remain imprisoned for the rest of their lives. 

Palamon and Arcite were glad to be still together, 
for they loved one another more dearly than brothers, 
and once they had made a solemn vow that neither should 
ever stand in the other’s way, either in love or honour 
or in any other thing. But they mourned their lost 
liberty bitterly, and longed for freedom again, that they 
might ride forth into the world and do deeds of valour 
and win honour and glory, as was fitting for young 
knights of their degree and estate. 

Now Theseus had a young sister-in-law named Emilia 
who was more beautiful than any other maiden in the 
World. She was fairer even than the flowers that grew 
22 


The Knight's Tale 

in the palace gardens, and her long soft hair, which she 
wore in a thick tress down her back, was as golden in 
hue as the sunbeams that played on the Duke’s green 
lawns. And it happened that one May morning this 
lovely maiden rose up early and walked in the garden, 
plucking the roses, white and red, that grew there, 
which for all their sweetness were no sweeter than her 
own fair face. And as she wandered she came beneath 
the tower in which both Palamon and Arcite were 
imprisoned. 

Palamon had also risen early from his hard prison bed 
that morning. He stood beside the barred window of his 
dungeon and gazed at the green world outside, while his 
heart welled up with bitterness to think that he would 
have to spend the rest of his life behind iron bars. And 
while he stood gazing Emilia came beneath his window, 
singing a joyful little song in the gladness of her heart, 
her hands filled with the dew-wet roses she had been 
gathering. As Palamon ’s eyes fell upon her he gave a 
cry, half of pain, half of rapture, at the exceeding fair- 
ness of her face. 

Arcite, who was still lying drowsily on his bed, started 
up at his companion’s cry. 

“ Ah, Palamon,” he said sadly, “ you are pale. Why 
did you so cry out? Was it in bitterness at the sadness 
of our fate? We must strive to bear our imprisonment 
patiently, since for us there is no escaping.” 

“Nay,” answered Palamon, “ it was not pain at our 
imprisonment that made me so cry out. I am wounded 
to the heart, as it were with a sharp arrow, for love of 
the lady who now walks below us in the garden. Never 
in my life have I seen such a beautiful face and form 

23 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

— it must be the goddess Venus herself.” And forth- 
with he fell down on his knees, crying aloud : 

“ Oh, Venus, beloved goddess, help us to escape from 
our prison that we may devote our lives to thy service.’ 

Arcite rose to his feet and came and stood beside his 
friend that he too might see the lovely vision. And as 
his glance fell upon Emilia, wandering amongst her 
flowers, all unconscious of the wonder her beauty was 
exciting, her loveliness pierced his heart also, and he, 
like Palamon, fell at once madly and passionately in love 
with her. 

44 How beautiful she is! ” he cried. 44 Save that I 
may see her beauty every day, I shall count myself but 
dead! ” 

At these words Palamon turned and looked at his 
friend from under knitted brows. 

44 Say you that in earnest or in play? ” he asked. 

44 Nay, not in play,” answered Arcite. 44 1 say it in 
deepest earnest, for, in good faith, I have fallen in love 
with the maiden.” 

44 Then you are a traitor to me!” cried Palamon. 
44 Did we not swear that whether in love or in honour or 
in any other thing neither of us two would stand in the 
other’s way? This was mine oath and thine — and now 
you would be false to it and love my lady, whom, though 
my heart break, I shall love until I die. You shall not 
love her, Arcite ! I loved her first, and told you so. 
You are bound by your oath to help me win her, else 
are you false to your profession of friendship.” 

Arcite drew himself up proudly. 

44 It is you who are false,” he said. 44 1 loved her 
first. You thought her but a goddess and would have 

24 


The Knight's Tale 

knelt to her in worship. It was I who first saw that 
she was a woman, therefore she is mine. Besides, a man 
must needs love where his heart leads him, and since love 
is above all law he cannot always keep his oath. And 
anyway it is not likely that either you or I will ever win 
her. We are condemned to eternal imprisonment, and 
this fair maiden is not for either of us.” 

But in spite of all reason the love between these two 
friends was broken from that moment. Each was jealous 
of the other, and their captivity became a sadder thing 
to both of them, since the friendship which had hitherto 
made their sorrow endurable was now no more. And 
day by day the two young knights fell more and more 
deeply in love with Emilia, and lived only for the happy 
moments when she came to walk in the Duke’s garden. 

It happened that Arcite had a great friend, a power- 
ful duke, who was also a friend to Theseus. When this 
duke knew that Theseus held Arcite a prisoner, he sent 
a message to Theseus asking him to set Arcite free. And 
Theseus, for the love he bore his friend, at once released 
Arcite from his captivity and sent him back to his own 
-city of Thebes, making it a condition, however, that he 
should never return to Athens upon pain of instant death. 

But, although he was now free, Arcite did not thank 
his friend for procuring his release. Since he might never 
return to Athens, he would never more see Emilia ; and 
it seemed to him that it would be better to be Palamon 
in prison, able to gaze upon her every day, than himself 
at liberty, never to see his lady any more. 

“ Oh, Palamon,” he cried in the anguish of his heart, 
“ I would that I were with you still in prison! Since I 
may not see my Emilia, I am but dead! ” 

25 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Time passed on. Two or three years went by, yet 
still Arcite could not forget his love and sorrow. At 
last he made up his mind that he would risk everything 
and return to Athens. 

“ Even if I die,” he said, “ I shall at least have seen 
my lady again.” 

So he disguised himself as a poor wayfarer, and went 
to the Duke’s court at Athens, where he begged for a 
place as a servant. He said that his name was Philostrate, 
and as it happened that there was a page’s place vacant, 
he was engaged to fill it. And so it came to pass that 
he lived under the same roof as Emilia, and even had 
the great privilege of serving and waiting upon her. He 
did his work well, and he had such a brave and manly 
bearing that at last he won the favour of the Duke, who 
made him a squire of his chamber, and then he was able 
to see Emilia more frequently still. 

For three years Arcite lived at the Duke’s court, 
happy because he was at liberty to see his lady every 
day. And all the while, in his gloomy prison, poor 
Palamon languished in grief and despair. At length, 
however, fortune seemed to favour the poor prisoner. 
With the help of a friend he was able to escape, and 
under cover of darkness he fled out of the city. 

It was summer time when Palamon escaped, and as 
the nights were short, daylight soon overtook the fugitive. 
He dared not travel by day, so he took refuge in a grove 
of thick trees a little way outside the city to wait for 
darkness to fall again. When the night came once more 
he intended to make his way back to Thebes and gather 
together a great army to make battle against Theseus 
and win Emilia for his wife. 


26 


The Knight's Tale 

The very morning after Palamon had escaped from 
prison Arcite rose up early and rode out of the city to 
gather a garland of flowers for his fair mistress, and it 
chanced that he came to the very grove where Palamon 
lay hid. He gathered his garland, and whilst he plucked 
the flowers he began to speak his thoughts aloud, all 
unconscious that he was doing so. 

“Alas!” he sighed, “to think that I, Arcite, a 
descendant of the kings of Thebes, should be serving 
Duke Theseus as his humble squire ! Here am I known 
as Philostrate, a man of no degree, and I am despised 
and looked down upon by knights who are far my 
inferiors. Yet I cannot break away from my bondage, 
for my love for Emilia is so great that I should die could 
I not see her every day. Alas ! it was a sorry trick the 
gods played upon me when thus they bound my heart in 
thrall! ” 

Palamon, who was hidden close by in a thicket of 
bushes, could hear every word he said, and, recognising 
Arcite, he sprang to his feet and darted out from his 
hiding-place. 

“ Arcite, false traitor, I have found you! ” he cried. 
“Now shall either you or I die, since we cannot both 
continue to love the same lady and live. Had I but a 
weapon I would soon put an end to our rivalry, but alas ! 
I have only just escaped out of prison and am all unarmed. 
Nevertheless, with these naked hands will I attack you 
and endeavour to end your false life, unless you will swear 
to leave Emilia and never love her more.” 

Arcite pulled out his sword and faced Palamon 
angrily. 

“ I have as good a right to love her as you,” he cried. 

27 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“ Were it not that you are mad for love and all unarmed 
I would slay you here and now. Love is free, as you 
shall know ere long. But you are a very gentle, perfect 
knight, and so I may not take advantage of you unfairly. 
Here is my troth. To-morrow I will not fail to return 
to this place with weapons and armour for us both. 
Then will we fight for Emilia, and the one that wins the 
combat shall have her to wife.” 

“ I am agreed,” said Palamon, and then the two 
who had once been such faithful friends separated until 
the next morning. 

At daybreak Arcite returned to the grove, bearing 
with him two suits of armour and weapons for them 
both. He and Palamon helped to array each other for 
battle, and then a fierce and mighty struggle began 
between the two. They fought desperately, and dealt 
each other many terrible wounds, and soon the red blood 
was flowing from both of them, staining all the grass 
whereon they stood. 

Now it happened that Duke Theseus, when he awoke 
that morning, was seized with a great desire to hunt. So 
horses were saddled and bridled at once, and the Duke, 
with his hunting-men, accompanied by his wife and his 
wife’s beautiful sister Emilia, rode out to the chase. And 
the hounds led the party straight to the grove where the 
two knights were fighting, and just as the combat was 
at its fiercest the Duke with his retinue appeared on the 
scene. 

The hunting-party reined up their horses in amaze- 
ment, and then, spurring his steed forward, the Duke 
rode in between the fighters, striking up their weapons 
with his sword. 


28 



99 


“ The Duke rode in between the fighters. 









The Knight’s Tale 

“Hold!” he cried. “The next man of you that 
smites a stroke shall be dead ! What men are you that 
fight here in this unseemly manner, with neither judge 
nor officers to see that all be done in order? ” 

Palamon, seeing that it was the Duke himself, and 
half-blinded by love and fury, answered impetuously : 

“ Sir, you may kill us if you will, for we both deserve 
death. I am Palamon, your prisoner, whom you have 
kept for so many weary years in captivity. Now am I 
escaped from my prison, and since you have caught me 
again I shall be glad to die. And this other is Arcite, 
whom you set at liberty long ago, but who has broken 
your decree and has come to Athens, and has lived with 
you as Philostrate, your squire. We are fighting together 
for love of the queen’s fair sister, Emilia, for whom we 
have both conceived a passionate devotion. Now kill us 
if you will. I for one am ready and eager to meet 
death.” 

The Duke was very angry when he heard this story 
and learnt how Arcite had deceived him. He would 
have had both of them put to death then and there had 
not his wife and Emilia fallen on their knees before him 
and begged him to spare the lives of the two young 
knights. They were moved to pity at the story of their 
sad love, and their tears and pleadings so touched the 
Duke that at last he consented to grant their request. 

“ For the sake of my wife and my fair sister Emilia, 

I freely forgive you both,” he said to Palamon and 
Arcite, “ but you must swear to me that you will never 
seek to harm me or my country if I let you go. And 
since both of you have this love for my sister, I will 
suggest a way by which one of you may win her. You 

29 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

are both of royal lineage, and I would gladly give her 
to either of you, but I cannot give her to both, and I 
have a plan by which you may decide which of you it 
shall be. You shall go whither you will, and this day 
fifty weeks you shall return, each bringing with you one 
hundred knights at arms. Then will I hold a great 
tournament, and you with your companies shall meet in 
the lists and do battle for Emilia. And whichever one 
of you is the conqueror, to him will I give my fair sister 
to wife. What say you? Does this meet with your 
desire? ” 

Palamon and Arcite fell down on their knees before 
Theseus, thanking him for his great kindness. Then they 
rose up, and after having taken leave of the company 
they rode homewards, each eager to begin his search 
for the hundred brave knights .who were to aid him in 
the contest. 

Days and weeks and months flew swiftly by, and 
soon the day appointed for the tournament drew near. 
Theseus had built a great walled enclosure where the 
fight was to take place, with seats all round it for the 
spectators. At each of the three entrances to the 
enclosure he had raised a temple to the three principal 
gods whom he worshipped. At the eastern gate he had 
built a temple for Venus, the goddess of love ; at the 
western gate he had raised a temple to Mars, the god 
of war; and at the northern gate he had made one for 
Diana, the goddess of the chase. The temples were 
richly adorned with carvings and paintings, and each 
contained a statue of the god or goddess to whom it .was 
dedicated. 

At last came the eve of the great day. Palamon and 

30 


The Knight's Tale 

Arcite had arrived in Athens, each bringing with him a 
hundred knights, all brave and skilful at arms, and of 
great and noble descent, and all furnished with splendid 
weapons for the contest. Theseus welcomed his guests 
with great honour and made a feast for them in his palace, 
and thus the time till the tournament passed merrily 
away. 

Although he had spent the greater part of the last 
night in feasting and singing, yet very early in the morn- 
ing of the great day, before daybreak, Palamon arose 
and made his way to the temple of Venus which Theseus 
had erected by the field where the tournament was to be 
held. And there he prayed to the goddess to help him 
to obtain his heart’s desire. 

“ I do not ask for victory,” he said, “ only that you 
will give me Emilia for my wife. If you will but grant 
me this great happiness, then will I serve and worship 
you all my life long ; but if you will not grant my request, 
then I pray that I may be killed outright in the conflict, 
for death will be more welcome to me than life without 
my dear lady.” 

As he finished praying the statue of Venus before 
.which he knelt seemed to quiver, and Palamon took the 
sign to mean that his prayer would be granted. Full of 
joy, he rose from his knees and went back to the palace, 
his heart overflowing with gladness to think that the 
great desire of his life would be at last fulfilled. 

Emilia also rose up early that morning and hastened 
to the temple of Diana, to whom she in her turn made 
her petition. 

“ Oh, gentle goddess,” she cried, “ give me to the 
man who loves me best. And whether it be on Arcite 
31 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

or Palamon the lot shall fall, I pray that you will make 
peace again between these two — for I am sad indeed to 
think that it is through me their friendship has been 
broken.” 

As Emilia spoke one of the two lights burning on 
the altar flickered and went out. It was only for a 
moment, for almost immediately it sprang to life again 
and burnt more brightly than before ; but as it sprang 
up the other light began to quiver and finally went out 
altogether. This light did not recover, and as she gazed 
at the altar, wondering what the sign might mean, Emilia 
was horrified to perceive that drops of blood were issuing 
from the candle-end. 

As she knelt on, trembling, too frightened to move, 
the form of Diana herself suddenly appeared before her. 

“ Fear not, daughter,” said the goddess kindly. 
“You are to be wedded to one of these young knights, 
but which I cannot tell you yet. Only this I promise 
you : it shall be to the one who loves you the most 
truly,” and having thus spoken, the goddess disappeared, 
and Emilia took her homeward way full of awe and 
wonder. 

A little later Arcite arose and entered the temple of 
Mars, the great god of war. 

“ Great lord of battle,” he said, “ I pray that you 
will grant my prayer. Give me the victory in the conflict, 
and I will serve you all the years I have to live. Give 
me the victory; I ask no more.” 

He finished his prayer, and suddenly the lights on 
the altar of Mars burnt up brightly, filling the whole 
temple with their brilliant light. And it seemed to 
Arcite that the statue of Mars moved its head as though 


The Knight’s Tale 

nodding assent, while he seemed to hear a voice in the 
temple whispering “ Victory. ” Happy and triumphant, 
the young knight hastened back to Athens, for he felt 
sure that the sign meant that he should conquer in the 
fight. 

By this time the day had dawned. The sun rose up, 
bright and beautiful, and the preparations for the tourna- 
ment went on apace. There was great feasting and 
rejoicing in the city of Athens that day. Everybody 
took a holiday and hastened out to the battlefield that 
they might witness the fray. There was noise and clatter- 
ing in all the inns and hostelries. Horses were being 
harnessed and caparisoned, armour was being cleaned and 
polished, and soon the great field where the tournament 
was to take place was full to overflowing with lords and 
noble knights richly decked in armour, and with fair 
ladies in silks and embroideries, come out to watch the 
jousrting. 

Duke Theseus had made a decree that no knight was 
to kill another if he could possibly avoid it, for he wished 
to have no loss of life. If any knight was overcome, he 
was to be taken prisoner by his adversary and secured to 
stakes on the far side of the field. And whichever side 
should prove victorious, to the leader of that side should 
Emilia be given, whether it were Arcite or Palamon. 
Having given these instructions to the heralds and 
knights who were to act as judges and see that all was 
done in order and that everyone had fair play, the Duke 
rode out to the field with his wife and Emilia to watch 
the great battle. 

And then began a struggle so mighty and fierce that 
none of those present had ever seen its like before. None 

D 33 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

could say which fought the better — the knights of Pala- 
mon or the knights of Arcite. Long and fierce was the 
conflict, and many were the blows given and received. 
All day long the battle raged, and the men on each side 
.gradually dwindled down as one by one they were over- 
come and carried captive away. Yet still those who were 
left fought on, while the people who were watching 
cheered and shouted, spurring them on to fresh efforts. 

Meanwhile, in the halls of Olympus where the gods 
were assembled, another great strife was taking place, 
this time between the goddess Venus and the great god 
Mars. Venus wished Palamon to gain the victory because 
she had promised that he should have Emilia for his wife ; 
but Mars declared that Arcite must win because he had 
vowed to give him the victory. 

“It is impossible that the god Mars should break his 
promise,” he said, “ therefore Arcite must win.” 

“ Shall it be said, then, that Venus cannot keep her 
vows? ” cried the enraged goddess. “ I have promised 
Emilia to Palamon, therefore I say he must have the 
victory.” 

“And I,” said Diana, “ have promised Emilia for a 
husband the man who loves her best.” 

Jupiter, the chief of all the gods, was in a great 
difficulty. He tried to make peace between Venus and 
Mars, but neither would give in, and it seemed as though 
the matter would never be settled, when the god Saturn 
came to the rescue. 

“ If you will leave the matter to me,” said Saturn, 
“ I can manage it so that neither of you shall be for- 
sworn. Mars shall keep his promise to Arcite, and Venus 
shall perform her vow, to Palamon.” And since none of 

34 


The Knight's Tale 

the others could think of a way out of the difficulty, the 
gods and goddesses agreed to let Saturn do what he 
would. 

Down below, in the world, the sun was beginning to 
sink, and the knights on both sides made a desperate 
effort to finish the contest. Palamon and Arcite, who 
had dealt each other many bitter blows during the long 
conflict, had met together again in one last fierce 
encounter when one of Arcite’s knights ran his sword 
deep into Palamon’s side. Palamon’s followers fought 
valiantly, but Palamon was weak from pain and loss of 
blood, and in spite of all his knights could do he was 
drawn, struggling and fighting still, to the stake at the 
far side of the field where Arcite’s prisoners were bound. 
And when Theseus saw that one of the leaders was taken 
he made his heralds blow a great blast on their trumpets 
to signify that the tournament was over. 

“ All has been done in fair fight,” he cried. “ Arcite 
is the victor, therefore he shall have Emilia to wife.” 

There was a great outburst of clapping from the 
spectators as he gave his decision, and Arcite, putting 
up his helm, rode forward in exultation. But above, in 
the halls of Olympus, Venus began to weep and rave in 
anger. 

“Alas, alas! ” she cried. “ I am disgraced for ever! 
my vow is broken ! Never more will men come to do 
sacrifice and offer up petitions at my altars, since they 
know I can no longer grant their prayers. My name will 
be scorned for ever on earth! ” 

“ Hold your peace, my daughter, all will yet be well,” 
said Saturn, with a smile. “ Mars now is satisfied. His 
vow is fulfilled. His knight has obtained that for which 
35 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

he asked — victory in the fight. Now it remains to grant 
Palamon his desire. Wait but a little, and you, too, 
shall be satisfied.” And calling Pluto, the god of the 
underground world, to his side, Saturn whispered a 
request. 

Pluto nodded grimly, and just as Arcite rode forward 
to receive the palm of victory a miracle happened. The 
ground opened at his feet, and a flame of fire, sent by 
Pluto from the underground regions at Saturn’s request, 
sprang upwards, which so terrified Arcite’s horse that 
he leapt up and fell over backwards, throwing his rider 
heavily to the ground. The heralds and knights ran 
quickly to his side, but when they lifted Arcite up they 
found that he was so badly hurt that it seemed that he 
must die. 

With great grief and sorrowing Arcite was carried 
back to Theseus’ palace. Many of the knights who had 
fought in the great tournament were hurt, but none had 
been mortally injured, and with the salves and herbs and 
charms w r hich the doctors gave them all w r ere soon healed 
of their wounds. All except Arcite. He had been 
injured beyond all human help, and soon it w T as known 
that he could never recover. 

When Arcite knew r that he must die, he sent for 
Palamon and Emilia. 

“ Emilia, my sweet lady,” he said, “ I have loved 
you well and truly, but although I have w r on you I may 
not keep you, for the gods have decreed that I shall die. 
I pray you now to accept my service and my love, and 
since I may not give you my life I recommend to you 
Palamon, my friend and brother. In all this w^orld I 
know of none so worthy to be loved as Palamon. I have 

36 


The Knight's Tale 

borne ill-will towards him for many a day for your fair 
sake, but now that I am dying I have forgotten all else 
save the great love I once bore him. I pray that you 
jvill wed with him when I am gone.” 

Even as he spoke his breath failed and his eyes grew 
dim, and as he said the last word he sank back on his 
pillows and died. 

Palamon and Emilia and the Duke Theseus, and all 
the people of Athens mourned for the brave young 
knight. Theseus made a great funeral for him, such as 
had never been seen in Athens before. But when all 
the mourning and weeping was over, the Duke sent for 
Palamon and told him that he was going to give him 
Emilia for his wife since he loved her so truly, and since, 
although he had been worsted in the tournament, yet 
it was no disgrace to him, for he had fought bravely and 
well. Emilia had learnt to love Palamon, and she gladly 
gave him her hand; and so at last, after long years, 
these two were wedded. 

A great wedding ceremony took place in Athens, 
with much feasting and rejoicing, and the story goes 
that Palamon and Emilia lived happily ever after, loving 
each other so truly and tenderly that not one unkind 
or jealous word ever passed between them. 

And that is the end of the Knight’s Tale of Palamon 
and Arcite. 


87 


The Inchcape Rock 

T HE Abbot of Aberbrothok — or, as it is now 
called, Arbroath — was noted far and wide for 
his good deeds and his saintly life. He was 
always kind and considerate to others, and always ready 
to do all he could to help those in distress. Everybody 
who knew him loved him, except for one or two wicked 
people who could not bear to think that anyone could 
live so pure and good a life. 

Amongst his many other good actions, the old Abbot 
had placed a warning bell on the dangerous rock which 
stood at the entrance to the Firth of Tay. This rock was 
known as the Inchcape Rock ; and before the Abbot had 
placed the bell there it had been dreaded by all the 
mariners who ever sailed those waters ; for at high tide it 
was completely hidden by the sea, and many a ship had 
run aground there. But now they dreaded it no longer. 
When the rock was covered by the tide, the waves caused 
the bell to ring out its warning, and the seamen, hearing 
it, knew in what direction to steer their course. And 
many were the blessings called down upon the good old 
Abbot for his thoughtfulness. 

But there was one man who did not love the Abbot of 
Aberbrothok. Sir Ralph the Rover, as he was called, 
a brave but wicked man who sailed the high seas in his 
own ship, sinking and robbing other ships, rather despised 
38 


The Inchcape Rock 

and disliked him than otherwise. He had often heard of 
the Abbot’s goodness and saintly manner of life, and as 
he hated all goodness he would gladly have done the old 
man an injury if he could. And one day, as the pirate 
ship was sailing by the Inchcape Rock, it seemed to the 
Rover that the opportunity had come, if not to injure the 
Abbot exactly, at least to vex and annoy him. 

It was a calm; sunny day in spring. The air was warm 
and pleasant, and the sea-birds screamed joyously to one 
another as they circled to and fro above the water. The 
waves washed gently round the Inchcape Rock, rising and 
falling so little that they scarcely stirred the Abbot’s bell. 
Sir Ralph was pacing up and down the deck of his ship, 
and as they sailed past the rock and his eye fell upon it, 
an idea came to him which made him laugh out loud. 
But, as his men well knew, the Rover’s mirth meant 
wickedness. 

“ Men,” he cried, “ put out the boat, I want to row 
to the Inchcape Rock. I’ll plague the priest who put that 
bell upon it ! ” And he laughed again. 

The boat was quickly lowered, for the Rover’s word 
was law to his men, who lived in fear and awe of their 
captain. Sir Ralph sprang into it, and the crew rowed 
towards the rock ; and when they reached it Sir Ralph 
bent over from the boat and cut the bell from its moor- 
ings. Down into the green depths of the ocean it sank 
with a gurgling sound. The bubbles rose and burst 
around the place where it had disappeared, and Sir Ralph 
gave a malicious chuckle. 

“ The next who comes to the Inchcape Rock won’t 
bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok,” he said. 

For many a day the Rover sailed the seas in his pirate 
39 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

ship, waylaying and plundering the rich merchant vessels 
as they came and went with their golden store ; until at 
last, grown rich with all the treasure he had stolen, he 
turned his helm and steered back again once more to the 
coast of Scotland. 

A thick haze obscured the sky as the pirates drew near 
to the Scottish shore. All day long a gale had been blow- 
ing, but now at evening it had died away. Yet the ship 
was still borne along by the swell of the tide, and the 
sailors grew fearful, for they could not tell whereabouts 
they were. It was so dark that they could not catch a 
glimpse of the land, yet they knew they could not be 
far from the shore. 

Sir Ralph took his stand upon the deck and tried to 
cheer the failing hearts of his seamen. 

“ It will be lighter soon,” he said encouragingly. 
44 See, there is the moon rising already.” But the seamen 
would not be encouraged. 

44 1 wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell,” said one of 
them in an undertone, and his wish was echoed by his 
companions in their hearts. A strange uneasiness had 
fallen upon them. They felt, in the darkness and gloom 
and the ominous silence that was all about them, as though 
some terrible doom threatened the ship. 

Suddenly, with a sickening shock, the keel of the 
vessel struck against something which was submerged 
beneath the water. A shriek of despair and terror arose 
from the seamen. 

44 It is the Inchcape Rock!” they cried, and Sir 
Ralph the Rover tore his hair and poured out terrible 
curses upon himself as he realised that their cry was true. 
In the darkness he had run his ship against the very rock 

40 


The Inchcape Rock 

from which he had cut the warning bell. His own hand 
had brought his doom upon him. 

The waves rushed in on every side, the ship began to. 
sink, and the terrified seamen flung themselves headlong 
into the water, for they knew that it was only a matter of 
moments now before the vessel went down. Lower and 
lower she sank, until with one sudden plunge she dived 
below the surface of the sea. And as Sir Ralph felt the 
waters close above his head he heard a dreadful sound 
arising through the waves — the sound of a bell tolling, as 
though the fiends themselves were ringing a death-knell 
for him on the sunken Inchcape Rock. 


41 


The Boy and the Mantle 

I T was Christmas-time, and in the great hall of his 
castle King Arthur was holding his court. He was 
surrounded by all the Knights of the Round Table, and 
by many fair and great ladies who were in attendance 
upon the Queen, the lady Guinevere, and they were all 
very merry and joyful, for in those days Christmas was 
kept as the greatest holiday of the year throughout all 
the length and breadth of England. 

While the gay company was in the midst of all the 
feasting and dancing and singing a Fairy Boy suddenly 
appeared in the hall. He was dressed in rich garments, 
and over his arm he carried a mantle of wonderful shape 
and colour. Bowing low to King Arthur, he greeted 
him reverently. 

“ God save thee, brave King Arthur,” he said, “and 
thy goodly Queen Guinevere beside. I have come hither 
to add my share to your Christmas cheer. Look at this 
mantle.” Here the boy held up the garment and dis- 
played its wonders to the assembled lords and ladies. 
“It is made of rich stuff and embroidered with silks of 
wondrous hue, meet to adorn the beauty of the fairest 
dame on earth. I have brought it here as a Christmas 
gift for the lady who can wear it. All who will may try 
it on, but I warn you that it will fit none save she who 
is tender and loving and pure of heart.” 

42 


The Boy and the Mantle 

There was excitement and merriment in Arthur’s 
hall as the Fairy Boy spoke. All the fair ladies present 
coveted the beautiful mantle, and each, in her heart of 
hearts, thought that she would Certainly be the one to 
win it. Queen Guinevere herself was the first to come 
forward. She took the mantle from the boy and flung 
it over her shoulders, and then turned round that all 
might admire its wonderful silken folds. 

But a dreadful thing had happened ! It was quite 
evident that the Queen was not tender and loving and 
pure of heart, for the mantle did not fit her at all. It 
was all shrunken and unshapely. On one side it hung 
too short, on the other too long, and it lay in unsightly 
wrinkles on her shoulders, while its beautiful colours were 
all changed and faded to a sombre, ugly hue. The King 
and his knights and ladies stared at the Queen in dismay, 
and Guinevere burst into a storm of anger and flung away 
the magic mantle. She raved at the weaver who had made 
the garment, at the King and his knights for having seen 
her humiliation, and most of all at the Fairy Boy for 
having brought the robe to the court. And having thus 
shown by her display of temper how truly the mantle 
had spoken, she left the hall in a fury and retired to her 
own chamber. 

The next lady to try on the mantle was the wife of 
Sir Kay, the King’s seneschal. She came forward boldly 
and took it up, confident that she would win it for her 
own. But when she had put it on she was aghast to 
find that it would no more fit her than it would fit the 
Queen. She threw it off hastily and slunk away, pale 
and dismayed, amidst the mocking laughter of the court. 

Then one by one the ladies of King Arthur’s court 

43 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

came forward to try on the mantle, some of them laugh- 
ing and joking at the ordeal, some shy and frightened. 
But the mantle would not fit any of them, and at last it 
seemed that there was not one lady in all King Arthur’s 
court who was worthy to wear the magic garment. But 
at the end Sir Cradock, one of the bravest and noblest of 
King Arthur’s knights, called his lady to him. 

“Come, sweetheart,” he said, “try on this mantle, 
and let me see how it becomes you.” And his wife 
stepped forward, not daring to say her lord nay, but 
blushing and trembling to find herself the centre of 
interest amongst all that laughing / throng. Yet she 
would not shame her husband in front of all those people, 
and plucking up all her courage she went to the Fairy 
Boy and took the mantle from him. Then, With a little 
prayer that she might not disgrace herself and her lord, 
she put it over her shoulders. 

And at last it seemed as though somebody worthy to 
wear the mantle had been found, for it hung in perfect 
folds from her shoulders, and it kept its beautiful colour 
and did not change to an ugly hue as it had done before. 
But when the lords and ladies looked down at her feet, 
they saw that even yet the hem did not hang quite 
straight. There was one big ugly wrinkle at the bottom, 
and Sir Cradock’s wife, looking down and seeing it, 
blushed red with shame. She was not quite worthy to 
.wear the mantle, for once she had sinned. It was not 
a very big sin, but it weighed heavily upon her tender 
conscience, and she knew at once why the mantle did 
not hang quite straight. 

But although she was shy and quiet as a rule, yet she 
yvas brave and courageous at heart, and lifting her head 

44 






The Boy and the Mantle 

she spoke to the assembled company, telling them of her 
little sin. And as she confessed her fault the wrinkle in 
the hem of the mantle suddenly disappeared. The gar- 
ment hung now in perfect folds, and its colours became 
so dazzlingly beautiful that the sight of the lovely lady 
in her beautiful robe filled everybody present with wonder 
and admiration. The King himself came forward with 
a courtly grace, and bowed and kissed her hand ; and 
Sir Cradock’s heart glowed with love and pride for his 
beautiful wife, who alone of all the ladies present was 
judged worthy to wear the fairy mantle. 

Then the Fairy Boy drew from his bosom a tiny 
wand, which he waved over a great boar’s head that 
stood on the King’s table. 

“ None but the worthiest knight may carve that boar’s 
head,” he cried; and he stood aside with a smile on his 
lips as all the knights began to sharpen their knives and 
swords in order to try their skill at this seemingly simple 
task. 

But the task was not so simple as it looked. The 
boar’s head seemed as though it had been turned into 
stone, for all the blades were blunted as soon as the 
knights attempted to carve it, and none could cut off 
the smallest morsel until Sir Cradock came forward to 
try his fortune. He had only a very small knife, but it 
was large enough for his purpose, for he thrust in the 
blade easily and carved the boar’s head so that every 
knight in Arthur’s court might have a slice. 

The Fairy Boy was not yet quite contented, however. 
This time he brought a drinking-horn with a golden rim. 

“ See,” he said, “ none can drink from this horn save 
he whose wife loves him the truest.” 

45 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Once more the knights pressed forward to make this 
new trial, but not one of them could lift the cup to their 
lips. Some spilt the wine as soon as ever they took the 
horn into their hands, others as soon as ever they began 
to get it near their faces. Some could only lift it to 
their noses; some might only carry it to their eyes. 
None could bring it near their mouth until once more it 
came to Sir Cradock’s turn to try. But when Sir 
Cradock took the horn into his hands, he lifted it to his 
lips as easily as though it had been an ordinary drinking- 
cup, and drank up the wine. 

So Sir Cradock won the golden horn, and his lady 
the fairy mantle, and thus proved themselves the best 
and worthiest and truest of all the knights and ladies in 
King Arthur’s court. 


Evangeline 

M ORE than two hundred years ago, in the colony 
of Nova Scotia, in the little village of Grand 
Pre, which nestled in a fruitful valley between 
the shores of the great Atlantic Ocean and the vast, 
primeval forests of America, there lived a wealthy farmer 
named Benedict Bellefontaine. His wife was dead long 
before this story opens, but the farmer’s only child, 
Evangeline, a beautiful girl of seventeen, lived with him, 
directing his household and ordering all things beneath 
his comfortable roof. 

Evangeline was very lovely. Her eyes were black as 
the berries that grew on the bramble-bushes by the way- 
side, but so soft and tender that they seemed to shine 
almost with celestial light beneath the brown shadow of 
her hair. Yet for all that her eyes were so dark, her skin 
was as fair and clear as a maiden’s skin could be. She 
was the most beautiful girl in the whole of the village, 
and as she was as sweet and good as she was beautiful, it 
was little wonder that all the young men from near and 
far came to woo her, and that old men gazed at her with 
love and reverence as she passed on her way. 

But there was only one young man who received any 
encouragement from Evangeline, and that was Gabriel, 
the son of Basil Lajeunesse, the sturdy village blacksmith. 
Basil was Benedict’s great friend, and Gabriel and 

47 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Evangeline had been brought up together since they were 
tiny children. Father Felician, the old priest, had taught 
them their lessons together ; and now that they had grown 
up and passed beyond his care, he hoped soon to have the 
happiness of uniting them in marriage. For the match 
was approved by both families, and even now the lawyer, 
Rene Leblanc, was engaged in drawing up the wedding 
contract. As soon as that was duly signed and sealed, 
the lovers were to be married. 

The lawyer was not long over his task, and one evening 
in the autumn, when the nights were growing colder and 
colder, and the harvests had all been gathered in, Basil 
and his son came to Benedict’s house to ratify the contract 
of marriage between Gabriel and Evangeline. It was a 
happy evening for the two young people, and for their 
elders, for it had long been the desire of the two old 
friends that their children should be thus united, and so 
make the friendship between them even firmer and closer 
than it was at present. Yet, in spite of his joy that the 
wishes of so many years were at last to be fulfilled, Basil 
the blacksmith was oppressed by a sense of uneasiness. 
The relations between Nova Scotia and the Mother 
Country were none too friendly at that time, and only 
four days ago a fleet of English ships had anchored in 
the bay and had trained their cannon against the little 
village of Grand Pre. None knew what their design 
might be, but the hearts of the elders of the village were 
filled with foreboding. 

A few years before, the colony of Nova Scotia had been 
seceded to England by the French. Nearly all the inhabit- 
ants were of French descent, and it was very unwillingly 
indeed that they had signed the oath of allegiance to their 

48 


Evangeline 

new country. Soon after the colony had passed into British 
possession war had again broken out between the English 
and the French in Canada ; and there were some who said 
that the people of Nova Scotia had helped the French 
with arms and food. Whether this accusation was true 
or not had never been fully ascertained ; but the news had 
come to the ears of the British Government, and there 
were rumours that England, full of anger at the disloyalty 
of her new subjects, was planning drastic punishment for 
them. What this punishment might be was not yet 
known ; but when the British ships appeared off the coast 
it was natural that the Nova Scotians should feel some 
anxiety — more especially since the Governor of the colony 
had issued a notice requiring all the men of Grand Pre 
to meet him on the morrow in the church, when the King 
of England’s proclamation was to be read aloud. 

But Benedict Bellefontaine was not troubled by any 
forebodings. He laughed at Basil’s fears and said 
cheerfully : 

“Nay, friend, why look so blackly on what, after all, 
may be but rumours? Perhaps some friendlier purpose 
than you imagine brings these ships to our shores. 
Mayhap the harvests in England have been blighted by 
untimely rains or untimelier heat, and they have but 
come to take of our abundance lest their own women and 
children starve.” 

But Basil shook his head gloomily. 

“ Not so think the folk of the village,” he answered. 
“ Many have already fled to the forest, waiting there with 
anxious hearts for what may come on the morrow. The 
worst of it is we are wholly in their power whatever they 
may choose to do. All our arms have been taken from 

E 49 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

us — we have nothing but farm implements and workmen’s 
tools to oppose to their trained bands. If they do indeed 
mean us ill we can do naught but submit to their will.” 

The jovial farmer smiled again. 

“ To my way of thinking we are safer unarmed than 
if every man amongst us bore a loaded weapon. Fear no 
evil, my friend. To-night let no shadow of sorrow fall 
on this house and hearth. The house for our children is 
built, and the barns are filled with food and hay for a 
twelvemonth. Rene Leblanc will be here directly with 
his papers and ink-horn ; and then there will be nothing 
more to do but sign the papers and see the priest. Let 
us put aside all care then, and rejoice in the joy of our 
children.” 

Even as he spoke the old lawyer entered, a man who 
had had twenty children of his own, and more than a 
hundred grandchildren. Soon the papers were signed and 
sealed, and then the old lawyer rose to his feet and drank 
to the health of the bride and the bridegroom in a tankard 
of ale which Evangeline brought him. And when he had 
left, while Basil and Benedict played a game of draughts, 
Gabriel and Evangeline sat, half hidden in the deep 
embrasure of the window, gazing out over the sea — watch- 
ing the moon rise slowly over the silver mist of the 
meadows, and the stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels, 
blossom out one by one in the darkening sky. 

The happy evening passed away all too quickly. Soon 
the village curfew bell rang out the hour of nine ; Basil 
and his son said good-bye and departed, and silence 
reigned in the farmer’s house. Evangeline went upstairs 
to her chamber and set down her lighted lamp, pausing 
for one moment to gaze out once more into the still, 


Evangeline 

beautiful night. Her heart was filled with thoughts of 
her lover, who, although she did not know it, stood below 
in the orchard, watching her shadow as she passed to and 
fro, waiting until her light should be extinguished, and 
he should know that she was safe in bed. Little did either 
of these two young things dream of the morrow and all 
the sorrow and misery and loneliness in store for them. 

The next day dawned fine and clear, and at the 
appointed hour the men of the village went to the church 
to meet the Governor. Soon the building was thronged 
with men, while the women waited in their homes, or 
else thronged the graveyard to see the guards from the 
ships march by in front of the Governor. The men came 
marching up from the shore in steady order. They were 
fully armed, the villagers noticed with misgiving, and 
when they had entered the church the doors were shut- 
fast behind them. 

The farmers and villagers stood up in grave dignity to 
hear the King’s mandate as the Governor mounted the 
steps of the altar and turned to face them. In his hand 
he held the royal commission. 

“ You are convened here this day by His Majesty’s 
orders,” the Governor began. 44 His Majesty has shown 
you much clemency and kindness, but your own hearts 
can tell you how you have requited his kindness. The 
duty which I have now to do is very painful to me, for I 
know how grievous His Majesty’s decree will be to you. 
Yet must I bow and obey and deliver to you the com- 
mand of our Monarch — which is that your lands and 
your dwelling-places, and all your goods and cattle, are 
forfeited to the crown, and that you yourselves, with your 
wives and children, are to be transported to other lands. 

51 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

God grant that you may dwell in your new country more 
peaceably than you have done here. Until the time comes 
for your embarkation you are to remain in this church 
as prisoners, for such is His Majesty’s good pleasure.” 

The villagers could hardly believe that they had heard 
aright as this decree, so much more terrible than any- 
thing they had ever dreamed of, fell upon their ears. 
For a moment, in speechless horror and indignation, 
they kept silence ; then suddenly there arose a loud wail 
of anger and sorrow, and moved by a common impulse 
they turned to rush the door. But it was firmly barred 
and held against them, and they saw that there was no 
escape for them that way. Cries and fierce imprecations 
rang through the house of prayer, and the more fiery 
spirits amongst the imprisoned men would have rushed 
upon the soldiers and endeavoured to overcome them. A 
hopeless endeavour it would have been, and one fore- 
doomed to disaster. But as the tumult was at its height 
the door of the chancel opened, and the old priest, Father 
Felician, ascended the steps of the altar. He raised his 
hand for silence, and when a hush was made he spoke 
to his people tenderly and seriously, pointing out the 
hopelessness of their making any resistance, and exhort- 
ing them to bear their wrongs patiently. He pointed 
to the crucifix which hung above the altar. 

“ See where the crucified Christ gazes upon you from 
His Cross,” he said rebukingly. “ See what meekness 
and compassion shine from those sorrowful eyes. Hark 
how those lips still repeat the prayer, £ Father, forgive 
them.’ Let us repeat that prayer now, in this hour 
when the wicked so grievously assail us.” 

Deep into the hearts of the people sank the old 
52 


Evangeline 

man’s words, and sobs of penitence succeeded that first 
passionate outburst of anger. The simple, God-fearing 
men, following the teaching of the good old man who 
had been their guide and friend for so many years, sank 
upon their knees and repeated after him the prayer, 
44 Father, forgive them.” 

Meanwhile, outside in the village, the terrible tidings 
had sped fast, and women and children wandered on all 
sides, weeping and wailing. Evangeline, left all alone 
in her father’s house, felt at first very helpless, very 
lonely, very deserted when she heard the news; but 
after a while a more trustful spirit came to her. She 
stood at her father’s door for a long time, watching the 
rays of the setting sun as they slowly descended over the 
thatched roofs of the village. God would take care of 
her and her dear ones whatever might betide, she told 
herself ; and then, trying to forget her own sorrow and 
anxiety, she went down into the village, cheering the 
desolate women with her quiet looks and words, doing 
her best in her humble way to lighten the load of misery 
around her. 

Presently, when all the children had been put to bed 
and the village street was deserted, she wandered up to 
the churchyard and listened at the doors and windows. 
But she could hear nothing of the prisoners within. 
Once she cried aloud in a faint, tremulous voice, 
4 4 Gabriel,” but no answer came, and at last she returned 
to her father’s house. 

It was a sad, dreary evening, filled with terror and 
foreboding, very different from the evening before when 
she and Gabriel had been so happy together. In the 
night there was a terrific thunderstorm, but in some 
53 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

strange way the tempest seemed to soothe the maiden’s 
spirit. The voice of the echoing thunder seemed to tell 
her that God was in his heaven, still governing the world 
He had created ; and, hushed by the storm, Evangeline 
fell asleep at last and slumbered peacefully until the 
morning. 

For four long days the men of the village were kept 
prisoners in the church. On the fifth day orders came 
for the people to go down to the shore and embark on 
board the ships. The women and children were gathered 
on the beach with such of their personal possessions as 
they were to be allowed to take with them into exile; 
and then the men were marched down from the church 
and allowed to mingle .with their wives and children once 
more. 

Many of the women were overcome with grief as they 
waited for their sons and husbands to join them; but 
Evangeline, brave and strong even in this affliction, 
waited eagerly as the mournful procession descended to 
the shore. She caught sight of Gabriel first, and when 
she saw his face, pale and convulsed with emotion, she 
forgot the onlookers and ran quickly to his side. 

“ Gabriel! ” she said, clasping his hands and laying 
her head tenderly against his shoulder. “ Gabriel, be of 
good cheer. If we love one another nothing can really 
harm us.” 

She smiled bravely up into his eyes, although her own 
were filled with tears. Then she paused, for behind 
Gabriel she saw her father. Benedict was walking slowly 
and feebly, as though overcome with the weight of his 
years. The glow of health was gone from his cheeks, 
the fire from his eyes. He was bowed down with the 

54 


Evangeline 

affliction that had come upon him — he who had always 
been so cheerful, so hopeful, so full of joy and confidence. 
Evangeline left her lover’s side and ran to her father, 
putting her strong young arms about him, and speaking 
soft, tender words of endearment and comfort. 

Now began a time of sorrow and confusion for the 
villagers of Grand Pre. To and fro plied the boats 
between the ships and the shore ; and in the haste and 
disorder wives were torn from their husbands and mothers 
were separated from their children and carried to different 
ships. Basil and Gabriel were placed in one boat and 
taken away, while Evangeline and her father were left 
behind on the beach. When daylight ended half the 
task was still unfinished, and the unfortunate people who 
still remained, Evangeline and her father amongst them, 
were forced to camp for the night herded together on 
the shore, guarded relentlessly by the soldiers. 

Evangeline and her father sat somewhat apart from 
the others, beside one of the fires the people had kindled. 
Benedict sat with a vacant look on his face, as though 
his sufferings had taken all hope and thought and feeling 
from him. In vain did Evangeline offer him food and 
drink, and strive to cheer him with tender caresses and 
words of hope and love. He would neither eat nor speak, 
but sat motionless and still, huddled upon the ground. 

Father Felician, who alone of all the people left on 
shore seemed able to rise above his personal sorrow, 
wandered from group to group, speaking words of com- 
fort and hope to the stricken villagers. But when he 
came to where Evangeline sat with her father the words 
of comfort he would have spoken were hushed on his 
lips, and the tears came into his eyes. Silently he laid 

55 


|My Book of Stories from the Poets 

his hand on the maiden’s head, lifting his face in an 
agony of supplication to where the stars moved unper- 
turbed upon their way. Then he sat down beside 
Evangeline and joined her sad watch. 

But there was yet another trial in store for these poor, 
unhappy people. In the night the soldiers, by the order 
of the Governor, set fire to the village, and those on the 
shore, and those far off on board the ships, were obliged 
to watch their homes, in which they had led such happy, 
peaceful lives, burnt to the ground. A great cry of 
sorrow and anger arose from the crowd on the shore ; 
only Evangeline and the old priest and the stricken 
farmer still sat silently enduring their wrongs. But 
when Evangeline turned once to speak to her father, 
she found that he had fallen from his seat, and lay 
stretched out motionless upon the sands. The grief and 
suffering of the last few days had been too much for him, 
and his spirit had departed. 

In a sudden access of terror Evangeline knelt down 
at her father’s side, while the old priest, with shaking 
hands, lifted up the old man’s lifeless head. Then, as 
she suddenly realised that her father was dead, the maiden 
gave a cry of anguish and terror, and sank down in a 
swoon with her head upon the old man’s breast. All 
through that long night she lay unconscious; then, as 
morning came, she opened her eyes, and seeing herself 
in the midst of pitying friendly faces, the remembrance 
of her grief rushed back upon her. But she had no time 
to indulge her sorrow, for already the soldiers were get- 
ting ready to embark those who were still on shore. She 
turned to Father Felician, the only near friend left to 
her now, and the priest divined what she would say. 

56 


Evangeline 

“We will bury him here by the sea,” he said gently, 
“ and when a happier time brings us back from our exile, 
his dust shall be laid in the churchyard.” And there, 
on the seashore, without bell or book, the body of the 
farmer was buried in haste, with the light of the burning 
village for a funeral torch. Then the embarkation began 
once more, and before the day was over the ships sailed 
out of the harbour, leaving the village behind them in 
ruins, and carrying the broken-hearted exiles to seek a 
new home in a strange land. 

Even now the cruelty of the enemy was not over. 
The ships landed the exiles on different coasts, and 
families, torn asunder during the embarkation, found 
themselves separated from their dear ones. Fathers and 
mothers were bereaved of their children ; children were 
left, helpless and desolate, to the mercy of mere acquaint- 
ances. And in those days when letters were so few and 
far between, and there were no railways or fast-sailing 
vessels, it was impossible in many cases for friends ever 
to come together again. 

Evangeline was one of those who had lost all her dear 
ones. Her father was left behind on the shores of their 
own country, and Gabriel, her lover, was gone she knew 
not whither. Father Felician was her principal guide 
and friend, and with him she wandered from city to city 
with the little band of exiles amongst whom she had been 
landed. Everywhere she went she asked eagerly for 
tidings of Gabriel. Often she heard of him, but she could 
gather no definite news. Some said that he was in one 
place, some in another, but no one seemed able to say 
for certain where he was. Still Evangeline did not lose 
hope, but went about searching for him, trusting that 
57 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

God would be good to her and give her back her lover 
one day. 

Years passed on, and still Evangeline waited and 
hoped for Gabriel’s coming. But Gabriel did not come, 
and at last she began to wonder if her lover could be dead. 
Many of the young men who remained with her party 
desired her hand in marriage, and the older of her friends 
advised her to accept one of her suitors. 

“Are there not other youths as good as Gabriel, dear 
child,” they said, “ others who have hearts as tender and 
true and spirits as loyal? You are too fair to be left 
unmarried. There is Baptiste Leblanc, the lawyer’s son, 
who has loved you for many a weary year. Come, put 
away your grief, and love him and be happy.” 

But Evangeline would only smile at them sadly, 
saying : 

“ I cannot. My hand must follow where my heart 
has gone, and not elsewhere.” 

The old priest, Father Felician, Evangeline’s con- 
stant and unchanging friend, approved her resolution. 

“It is God who speaks thus within thee, my 
daughter,” he once said to her. “There is no need to 
talk of wasted affection. Affection never is wasted. If 
it enrich not the heart of another, it will return to its 
spring and fill thine own heart full of refreshment. Have 
patience, accomplish thy labour of love. By thy suffering 
thy heart shall be made God-like and rendered more 
worthy of Heaven.” 

Cheered by the good man’s words, Evangeline waited, 
and went about labouring amongst those of her acquaint- 
ances who were sad and in want. In her heart a voice 
seemed to whisper, “ Despair not,” and buoyed up with 

58 


Evangeline 

the hope that she might yet find her lover she lived on, 
still constant, still true, still brave and patient. 

Time passed on, and at last the little band of exiles 
amongst whom Evangeline’s lot was cast came to a town 
on the banks of the River Teche in America. As they 
drew near to their goal the hearts of the wanderers grew 
eager with expectation, for they had heard that many of 
the exiles from Grand Pre had come to live in this place, 
and there was none amongst them but hoped to find some 
long-lost friend or relation. The latter part of the journey 
was made by water, and as it came to the last night before 
the town was reached there were many happy, hopeful 
hearts amongst the exiles. Evangeline in particular was 
filled with hope and joy, for someone had told her that 
Gabriel Lajeunesse was living in this place. The travellers 
landed for the night upon the banks of the river, and 
Evangeline lay down to sleep with her companions on 
the greensward and slept peacefully, dreaming of her 
lover, for she felt sure that she was near him at last. 

But in the night, while the little band of wanderers 
slept, a light boat came swiftly down the river. In the 
prow of this boat sat a young man with a thoughtful, 
careworn countenance and a sadness somewhat beyond 
his years written upon his features. It was Gabriel, who, 
weary of waiting for Evangeline any longer, had set out 
once more to search for her, although all his previous 
years of seeking had been without avail. The raft in 
which the exiles had journeyed up the river was hidden 
from the occupants of the boat, and the little craft sped 
rapidly by bearing Gabriel, not nearer to, but farther 
from his long-lost bride. And Evangeline, unconscious 
of his nearness, slept peacefully on ! 

59 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

The next day the party came to the town where they 
hoped to find a home, and the first person to greet them 
was Basil, the blacksmith of Grand Pre. There was joy 
and rejoicing for many of the exiles, and many happy 
reunions took place ; but — alas for Evangeline ! The 
very first news she heard was that Gabriel had left his 
new home the night before to search through the world 
until he found her. 

“ Gone ! Is Gabriel gone? ” she said ; and overcome 
by this fresh blow she laid her head on the good black- 
smith’s shoulder and wept as she had not wept since her 
trials began. Basil and the good old priest tried to 
comfort her, and at last the former said cheerily : 

“Be of good cheer, child. The boy only left to-day 
because he could no longer bear the calm of this quiet 
existence. He was ever thinking and speaking of thee 
until at last, thinking to divert his thoughts from his 
grief, I sent him on this journey to the town of Adayes 
to trade for mules with the Spaniards, and he, hoping to 
gain some news of his beloved, consented to go. From 
Adayes he will follow the Indian trails to the forest, but 
do not fret thyself. We will follow this fugitive lover. 
He is not far on his way, and the streams are against 
him; to-morrow we will up and away and bring him 
back.” 

Basil had grown rich in this new land. He had many 
herds and flocks, and he had built himself a fine, strong 
house. He could well afford to spend the time on the 
journey he now proposed to take. And after he had 
entertained the weary travellers that night, and left them 
comfortably provided for during his absence, he set out 
with Evangeline and the necessary boatmen to bring back 

60 


Evangeline 

his son. Father Felician bade the travellers God-speed 
as he stood on the threshold the next morning to see 
them off. 

“ See that you bring back this prodigal son,” he said, 
smiling, “ and do not lose the foolish virgin who slept 
when the bridegroom was coming.” And Evangeline 
smiled a farewell at him through her tears as she set out 
once more to seek her lover. 

Swiftly they followed upon Gabriel’s trail. But they 
did not overtake him that day, as Evangeline had half 
hoped they might, nor the next day, nor the day after 
that. Week after week they followed his track, guided 
by vague and uncertain rumours, until at last they reached 
the little Spanish town of Adayes. Weary and worn, 
they alighted from their horses, only to learn from the 
landlord of the one little inn the place possessed that 
Gabriel had left the day before, with guides and horses, 
to follow the road across the prairie. 

In spite of this fresh disappointment the brave girl 
would not give up her search. Accompanied by Basil, 
she set out next day to try to overtake Gabriel, and, 
attended by their Indian guides, the two journeyed 
through the wide prairie lands of the west, with the 
great mountains standing above them lifting their heads 
through perpetual snows to the vast dome of heaven and 
gazing down unmoved upon the waving plains of grass 
below. Each day the pursuers hoped to overtake Gabriel. 
Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of 
his camp fire rising from some distant plain, but when 
they reached the spot they would find only dying embers 
and dead ashes. Yet, though their hearts were sad at 
times and their bodies weary, hope still led them on. 

61 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

At last they came to an Indian village where a little 
Catholic mission church was established. The mission 
*was ruled over by a wise old priest and a few faithful 
servants of the Church, who ministered to the bodily 
needs of the Indians and tried to teach them something 
of the love of the good Spirit whom they worshipped. 
And here at last Basil and Evangeline learnt definite 
news of Gabriel. 

“Only a few days ago he was sitting here by my 
side,” said the priest, when the travellers asked him 
eagerly for news of the wanderer. “ He told me his sad 
story, how he has lost the maiden whom he loves, and can 
find no trace of her. A little while only he remained 
with me, and then he arose and continued his journey. 
He has gone now far away to the north, but when the 
autumn comes he will return here to the mission.” 

Evangeline gave a little gesture of despair as the 
priest’s words fell upon her ear. Then she turned to him 
with meekness and submission. 

“ Let me stay here? ” she said wearily. “ My soul 
is filled with sadness and I am so tired. Let me remain 
here with you, and perhaps in the autumn Gabriel will 
come and fetch me.” 

This plan seemed wise both to the priest and Basil. 
It was impossible for Evangeline to travel farther into 
the wilderness after her lover, and Basil had not the heart 
to take her away. So on the morrow the good man said 
good-bye to the girl, and mounting his Mexican steed, 
he departed slowly homeward with his guides, leaving 
Evangeline at the mission. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded one another. 
Days, weeks and months passed away, and now the fields 


Evangeline 

of maize, which when Evangeline came to the mission 
were only just springing up green and tender from the 
ground, were waving their slender shafts high above her 
head. The time for gathering in the harvest came, but 
autumn did not bring Evangeline her lover. 

“ Patience,” the priest would say, as he saw the sad- 
ness deepening on her sweet face. “ Have but faith, and 
thy prayer will surely be answered.” And Evangeline 
tried to have faith ; but the autumn passed, and the 
winter, and then came spring, and still Gabriel did not 
come. 

With the summer rumour reached the mission that 
Gabriel had built himself a little lodge beside the Saginaw 
River, where he lived the wild, free life of the hunter and 
trapper. A company of guides ,was returning to this 
place, and Evangeline, bidding good-bye to the priest 
who had been so kind to her, set out with them, hoping 
this time to find her lover. 

But once more fate was against her. She reached the 
lodge only to find it empty and deserted. Gabriel had 
fled once more ! 

Then for a long, long time Evangeline wandered to 
and fro, searching for Gabriel. Every year her heart 
grew sadder and sadder, and her soul and spirit cried out 
more and more passionately for Gabriel’s love and com- 
panionship. Like a phantom she came, like a phantom 
she passed away unremembered from the cities where she 
sojourned for the night. She was young and fair when 
the long journey began ; she was faded and old when at 
last it ended in disappointment. Each succeeding year 
stole something away from her beauty and left a deeper 
shade of sorrow and regret on her sweet face. And at 

63 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

last, too old and tired to journey any longer, Evangeline 
came to rest in the quiet little Quaker town of Penn. 

There was something about the friendly streets of the 
quiet little city that appealed to Evangeline’s heart. Her 
ear was pleased with the “thee” and “thou” of the 
Quaker speech : it semed to recall in some way the happy 
village of her childhood ; and here she made up her mind 
to stay, her long, fruitless search ended at last. Gabriel 
was not forgotten, but after she had lived in the quiet 
atmosphere of the little town for a time some of her 
hopeless pain and longing seemed to pass away, and 
peace descended upon her troubled mind. Over her 
thoughts of her lover time had no power. Within her 
heart she bore his image, clothed still in youth and 
beauty as when she had last beheld him. He had become 
to her as one who is dead but not absent. And when 
she had rested a little from the fatigues of her long 
journey she sought and found work amongst the poor 
people of the town. Her life of sorrow and disappoint- 
ment had taught her patience and abnegation of self and 
devotion to others. With reverent steps she lived at 
the feet of her Saviour, and as a Sister of Mercy she 
moved amongst the lowliest, wretchedest streets of the 
town, ministering to the sick and bringing comfort and 
hope to the dying. Wherever her footsteps passed she 
seemed to bring peace, and many were the blessings that 
followed her and the eyes that lighted up when she 
appeared. 

So she lived, leading year by year a lovelier and still 
more useful life. And after many years had passed it 
happened that a terrible pestilence fell upon the city. 
Men, women and children died in hundreds, and all the 

64 


Evangeline 

almshouses and hospitals were full to overflowing with 
sick and dying people. Evangeline, the Sister of Mercy, 
toiled early and late at one of the poorest and most 
necessitous of the improvised hospitals. Day and night 
she worked incessantly amongst the sick, taking only the 
barest time needful away for rest and sleep, and many a 
dying face looked up into her calm, sweet eyes with love 
and confidence, thinking to see indeed gleams of celestial 
light encircling her forehead. 

One quiet Sabbath morning she came as usual, wend- 
ing her way through the silent streets to the bedsides of 
her suffering patients. In her hands she carried a great 
bunch of flowers, that the dying might rejoice once more 
in their fragrance and coolness. Her heart was filled 
with a great calm ; it seemed to her that a voice was 
telling her that all her trials were over. With a light 
footstep, and with love and tenderness shining from her 
eyes, she entered the place of sickness and took her place 
amongst the attendants. Death had been busy during 
the night, and as she looked around she saw that many 
familiar forms had disappeared in her absence, their 
places being already filled with strangers. 

Suddenly Evangeline stood still. A shudder ran 
through her frame and from her face the light of the 
morning vanished. Then a terrible cry of anguish 
escaped from her lips. Upon a pallet before her was 
stretched the form of an old, old man. Long and thin 
and grey were the locks that shaded his temples, pale 
and worn and wrinkled was the countenance that had 
once been so brown and ruddy and fresh. But as he lay 
there with the morning sunshine upon him his face seemed 
to assume for a moment the appearance of his earlier 

P 65 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

manhood, and to the eyes that loved him age could not 
conceal his identity. 

“Gabriel! Oh, my beloved!” Evangeline cried; 
and at the sound of her voice the old man opened his 
dim eyes. Evangeline sank on her knees beside him ; 
and even as she had recognised him, so did the dying 
man recognise the maiden he had loved so long ago. He 
tried to utter her name, he strove to rise and throw his 
arms about her; but although he was too weak to move 
or speak, Evangeline knew his intention. She lifted him 
up in her arms and kissed his dying lips, and for one 
moment these two who had loved each other so tenderly 
and truly, and had been so cruelly parted, gazed deep 
into each other’s eyes. What they read there they alone 
knew, but it was something so sweet and precious that 
it almost made amends even for those long sad years of 
waiting and separation. 

Then the sick man died, and Evangeline laid his body 
gently back on the bed. All was ended now : the hope, 
the fear, the sorrow, the restless, unsatisfied longing, and 
the deep, dull pain of suspense. Meekly Evangeline 
bowed her head, then, lifting her heart to the God who 
had strengthened and sustained her through all her trials, 
she murmured submissively : 

“ Father, I thank Thee! ” 

***** 

Far away from the site of the little village of Grand 
Pre, far away from the great forest beneath whose shadow 
two children once played, under the humble walls of a 
little Catholic churchyard two lovers are sleeping side by 
side in their nameless graves. In the heart of the city 
66 


Evangeline 

they lie, while the tide of life sweeps by them daily, 
unknowing and unnoticing. They are at rest for ever 
now. Their hearts no longer ache, their hands have 
ceased from their labours, their feet have completed the 
long weary journey. Another race of people has sprung 
up in Nova Scotia, but here and there along the shore 
are the descendants of some of the old families, the 
children of whom found their way back to the home of 
their fathers. And sometimes in the evenings, in some 
fisherman’s cottage, the story of Evangeline is repeated 
— how she was torn from her lover’s side in the spring- 
time of her youth and happiness, and how, when she was 
an old, old woman, she found him again, only to see him 
die in her arms. 

It is a sad story, but in spite of its sadness it is full 
of comfort too. For death cannot divide those who love 
one another. Whatever our beliefs may be, whatever 
creeds we hold, whatever faiths we may reject, deep 
within the heart of every one of us is hidden the great, 
strong conviction of the eternity of love. And so may 
we not believe that the souls of these two lovers are alive 
somewhere together, happy in the joy which has come 
to them at last? 


67 


The Goose 


G NCE upon a time there lived an old woman so 
old and poor and ragged and miserable that there 
could hardly have been anyone in the whole world 
more wretched. The cottage where she lived was old and 
tumbled-down. The windows were so broken, the doors 
fitted so badly, and there were such great cracks in the 
walls, that the wind blew in through all the crevices and 
made the house almost as cold as the world outside. 
And that was very cold indeed, for the weather was wild 
and windy and stormy on the day when my story begins. 

The poor old woman, crouched in the least draughty 
corner of the cottage, held her ragged clothes around her 
as best she could and listened to the storm which was 
raging without. Almost she wished that the wind w r ould 
blow down the cottage altogether and bury her in its 
ruins. Then, at least, she thought to herself, she would 
be out of her misery, and would feel the icy blast no 
more. 

But suddenly as she sat there shivering and groaning 
the creaky old door flew open, and a stranger strode into 
the room. He was a very queer-looking stranger indeed, 
and upon his arm he held a white goose. He did not 
wait to apologise to the old woman for his abrupt 
entrance, but, thrusting the goose into her shaking 
hands, he said : 


The Goose 

“ Here, take the goose and keep you warm. It is 
a stormy season.” And the next moment he was gone. 

The old woman clutched the goose by the leg and 
rubbed her eyes in astonishment. But seeing that the 
stranger had quite certainly disappeared and evidently 
meant the bird for her, she looked at it critically. A 
goose ! It wasn’t much to make a fuss about ! And as 
for warming her — well, one goose wouldn’t go far towards 
doing that ! Still, a goose was a goose, and it would 
make her a meal or two, or maybe it would fetch a few 
shillings in the village if she could find a purchaser. She 
might as well put it somewhere safe for the present any- 
way; and when the storm grew a little less violent she 
would go down into the village and see what it would fetch. 

But just at that moment, with a great clutter and a 
vast amount of cackling, the goose let fall a golden egg in 
her lap. The old woman let go the goose and caught up 
the egg in great excitement. Yes — it really was gold — 
and forgetting all about the furious storm which was 
raging, she ran out to tell her neighbours of the good 
fortune that had befallen her. 

And now came a good time indeed for the old woman. 
She was poor no longer, for every day the wonderful goose 
laid a golden egg ; and the old woman grew richer and 
richer, until at last everybody in the village bowed and 
nodded to her, and treated her as though she was a person 
of great distinction. Which, indeed, she was with her 
great wealth, that increased every day. Her cottage was 
no longer ruined and tumbled-down. It was patched and 
repaired, and added to and extended, until it was quite a 
fine building. As for the old woman, she no longer toiled 
and slaved for a few pence to keep body and soul together. 

69 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Instead, she lived in great comfort and luxury, with maid- 
servants and menservants to wait upon her, rich food to 
eat, soft armchairs to sit in, and fine clothes to wear. She 
grew quite plump and strong, and forgot all about how 
miserable and wretched she used to be, in her pride and 
pleasure in her new-found wealth. 

But in spite of all her grandeur and magnificence 
there was just one thing that troubled her greatly, and 
that was the very thing to which she owed all her present 
prosperity — the goose that laid the golden eggs. There 
never was such a noisy goose as that goose ! Every time 
it laid one of its fine golden eggs it clucked and cackled so 
loudly that it could be heard all through the village. 
Every fresh egg it laid the more noise it made, until at 
last the old woman grew nearly frantic with the cackling 
and clattering that went on each day. 

At length, one day, matters came to a climax. The 
goose seemed bent on letting the whole world know that 
she had just laid another golden egg. She cackled here 
and chuckled there, and clattered and cluttered and made 
such a dreadful din that the old woman felt that she could 
not bear the noise another minute. She seized a kettle 
which stood on the hob and hurled it at the noisy creature, 
and as that made no difference to the goose she flung the 
pan after the kettle ; and then hurled pot after pot, and 
pan after pan, until there was nothing more within reach 
left to throw. 

And still the goose went on cackling ! 

Then the old woman rose from her chair and began 
hunting round the room for things to throw at the goose. 
She seized the heavy brass candlesticks from the mantel- 
shelf and flung them at the bird; she threw the books, 
70 



<4 


‘ Go catch the goose, and wring her neck ! ’ she cried ’’ 



























































































































































































The Goose 

she threw the cushions, she threw the fire-irons, she threw 
her footstool, she threw her stick, she even seized the china 
dishes from the dresser and threw them. 

But still the goose went on cackling ! 

Then the old woman stamped and screamed and shook 
her fist at the bird. 

“Be quiet, will you! Be quiet, I say!” she 
shrieked, but the goose took not the slightest notice of 
her. It only cackled the louder, and still the more the 
old woman stormed the more the goose went on cackling. 

Then the old woman was seized .with a dreadful 
paroxysm of rage, and she shouted for her attendants. 

“ Go catch the goose and wring her neck ! ” she cried. 
“I will not be flouted so in my own house! I’ll not 
bear that horrible noise any longer ! Catch her, catch 
her! Wring her neck! At once, I tell you — at once, 
or I’ll sack the lot of you ! ” 

Then began such a bustling and scuffling as you never 
heard before in your whole life ! Men ran this way, maids 
ran that. Dogs yelped and barked, and flew about from 
place to place. Cats were stepped upon, and dashed 
about, making terrible noises. Furniture was upset, 
people got in one another’s way and knocked each other 
down; and the goose flew wildly from room to room, 
eluding them all, cluttering and cackling still, filling the 
whole house with her clamour. And the old woman raved 
and raged, commanding her servants to “ Wring that 
wretched creature’s neck this instant ! This very instant 
— do you hear me ! ” 

Suddenly, in the midst of all this uproar, the door 
flew open, and the stranger strode into the house. And 
as he entered the wind began to blow wild and rough, as 
71 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

it had blown on that morning, so long ago, when he had 
come before. He did not wait to ask if he might come 
in, but, pushing through the crowd, he caught the goose 
up on his arm, and cast a disdainful look at the old woman. 

“ So keep you cold or keep you warm, as best you 
may,” he said scornfully. “It is a stormy morning.” 
And then he was gone. 

As he disappeared from sight the wind he had brought 
with him rose to a tempest. It shrieked and howled 
round the house as though it meant to tear it to pieces. 
The chimneys came tumbling down, the windows blew 
in, the doors blew out. The gale tore great holes in the 
wall ; it swept away all the good things piled up on the 
larder shelves, the comfortable armchairs, and the soft 
cushions, and the fine furniture which the old woman had 
purchased with the golden eggs. It even seized the old 
woman herself, and blew off her cap and shawl, and tore 
her gown into rags and tatters. And as the frightened 
servants fled screaming out of the house it blew away the 
very carpets from the floor, and the curtains from the 
windows. 

And when at last the storm died down, there sat the 
old woman in her tumbled-dbwn cottage once more, 
clothed in miserable rags, all alone and wretched and 
shivering, as poor and old, and thin and hungry, as she 
had been when the stranger came to her door on that 
first wild winter’s morning. 


72 


Valentine and Ursine 


I T was St. Valentine’s Day, and the King of France 
made up his mind to go hunting, for the sun shone 
warm and bright, and the grass was glowing fresh 
and green after the long winter’s rain. So horses were 
bridled and saddled, and then, surrounded by his gallant 
peers and accompanied by his huntsmen, the King rode 
out to the fair forest of Artois. 

Soon the cheerful shouts of the gay party were arous- 
ing the echoes amongst the hills and valleys. By woods 
and thickets rode the huntsmen, and the King and his 
courtiers followed after them. But all at once those in 
front came to a sudden pause, and when those behind 
hastened up to see what was the matter they saw a strange 
sight. 

There upon the ground, in a little lonely dell, lay a 
new-born child. He was wrapped in a cloth of scarlet 
silk, and around him, pinned with a silver pin, was a 
golden mantle. No one was near him, and though the 
courtiers searched all around they could find no human 
being to whom he might belong. While they stood round 
the baby, wondering and perplexed, the King himself 
drew near to look at the child, and when the little one 
saw him he stretched out his tiny hands and smiled, which 
moved the heart of the King of France. 

“Now, by the rood! ” cried the King impetuously, 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“ this child is passing fair. Doubtless he is of royal birth 
— perhaps the heir to some mighty prince. Go, some of 
you, and bear him home to my court, and look out some 
skilful woman to be nurse to him. He shall be brought 
up as my own son until such time as his own kindred 
come to claim him. 

So the baby was carried home to the palace of the 
King of France. There he was given into the charge of 
a woman who was skilled in the care of children, who 
brought up the little one until he was old enough to come 
into other hands. The child was named Valentine, in 
honour of the Saint upon whose day he had been found ; 
and as he grew older he won all hearts by his beauty and 
engaging manners. The King loved him as though he 
had been his own son, and when at last the boy grew to 
man’s estate he dubbed him knight that he might win 
glory and honour amongst the peers of the realm. 

Valentine was especially skilful at deeds of arms, and 
by the time he was grown up he had no peer amongst 
all the knights and courtiers of France. After he had 
been made knight he went to the King and begged a 
boon of him. 

“ Grant that the first adventure that befalls may be 
given to me, my liege? ” he cried; and the King, well 
pleased at the knightly spirit of the lad, smiled at him 
kindly. 

“ The first adventure shall be yours,” he said; and 
the young man was content. 

Not many days after there came to the King’s court 
three palmers, clad in dreary grey robes. They fell at 
the King’s feet weeping and implored his help. 

“We be come from the forest of Artois,” they said. 

74 


Valentine and Ursine 

“ Deep within the forest glades there dwells a savage boy. 
He was bred amongst the wild beasts, and now he lives 
with them and feeds with them, and, like them, lusts for 
the blood of living men. He is so strong that none can 
withstand him, and many an innocent man has been 
cruelly done to death at his hands.” 

As the palmers finished speaking Valentine rose to 
his feet excitedly. 

“ The quest is mine, Sir King! ” he cried; and the 
King looked at him proudly and fondly. 

“ Go forth and conquer,” he answered ; and the brave 
young knight went forth to do battle against the savage 
man of the woods. 

Mounted on a snow-white steed, and clad in shining 
silver armour such as became a virgin knight who had not 
yet proved his mettle, Valentine rode forth to the forest 
of Artois. Very soon he came upon the wild man, and 
then he saw that the palmers had told the truth about 
this young savage. 

He was scarcely more than a boy, but yet his limbs 
were thick and strong, like those of a grown man, and 
the Pails of his hands and feet were like great talons. His 
unkempt hair hung matted round his shoulders ; his eyes 
glowed with fury, like the eyes of an eagle. By his side 
lay a huge oaken bough, knotted and twisted, a terrible 
weapon indeed in the hands of a man as strong as he. 

When the wild man saw Valentine in his shining 
armour riding towards him he sprang up with a howl that 
made the forest ring and leapt fiercely at the young 
knight’s throat. But Valentine was ready, and with a 
skiful thrust of his spear he brought his assailant to his 
knees. One more such thrust would have laid the savage 
75 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

low, but the wild man sprang up again and, raising his 
club, aimed such a dreadful blow at the knight that, 
though Valentine managed to evade it himself, yet it 
broke his spear to splinters. 

Valentine leapt down from his horse and, drawing his 
sword, sprang upon his enemy. The savage tried to wrest 
the blade from his hands, but the sharp steel made such 
dreadful wounds that, roaring with pain, he was obliged 
to let it go. Then he flung himself upon the knight and 
gripped him fast, and with a twist of his mighty arms laid 
him low upon the ground. 

But Valentine was not dismayed, although for the 
time being his adversary seemed to have the advantage. 
He struggled and twisted until he had brought the savage 
to the ground beside him ; and there the two lay, rolling 
and grappling, each endeavouring by every means in his 
power to overcome the other. 

But brutal force and savage strength must yield at 
last to superior skill, and at length Sir Valentine prevailed 
over his enemy and won the well-fought field. He bound 
his conquered foe with a strong iron chain, and led him 
back to court to present him before the King. 

But although he had conquered the savage, Sir Valen- 
tine treated his captive kindly. And as, at length, he 
grew used to the society of men, the wild man was wild 
no longer. He grew tame and docile, and learnt to love 
Sir Valentine, and in course of time became his most 
devoted servant and follower. Because he had been 
brought up with bears, his name was called Ursine, which 
comes from the Latin word Ursa, meaning a bear. 

After this adventure Valentine lived in high renown 
at the French court. He daily grew more skilful at feats 
76 


Valentine and Ursine 

of arms, and his praise was in everyone’s mouth. But 
one or two of the lesser knights became jealous of the 
young man, and one day, at a great feast made by the 
King, a young knight spoke slightingly and scornfully 
to Valentine of his birth. 

“You were found in the forest, and no one knows 
who were your father and mother,” he said. “ Doubt- 
less you are of base and lowly birth.” 

Valentine was very angry when he heard this unkind 
remark, and, turning to the knight who had made it, he 
swore a vow, then and there, never to rest until he had 
found his parents and proved the words to be untrue. 
And, bidding farewell to the King, he took his way out 
into the world, with his faithful servant Ursine at his side, 
determined never to return to the court until he could 
prove his parentage. 

For many a long day the two youths wandered through 
the world, over hill and valley, through forest and through 
field. At length they came to a beautiful castle which 
was surrounded by a moated lake. The castle was built 
of marble and the battlements were gilded with gold, 
which made them shine and sparkle and glitter in the 
sun. A bridge of brass led over the moat to the castle 
gate, and boldly setting foot upon it, Valentine and his 
companion set out to ask admittance at the wonderful 
palace. 

But beneath the bridge were hung a hundred bells, 
which whenever a man or beast set foot upon it were 
made to ring by some strange device. As Valentine and 
Ursine began to ride across the bridge the bells began to 
ring with such deafening noise that the two youths were 
almost bewildered. And at the sound of the bells the 
77 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

castle gate was flung open, and a huge giant rushed out 
upon them. 

“ Yield thee ! Yield thee ! ” cried the monster, stalk- 
ing towards them, “else will I stretch you dead upon 
the bridge for wolves to eat your flesh.” But Valentine 
was nothing daunted at the size and fierceness of the giant. 

“ Vain boaster! I scorn thee and thy threats! ” he 
cried proudly ; and, setting his horse at a gallop, he aimed 
a thrust against the giant’s side with such sureness of 
direction that the monster’s blood gushed forth. 

Mad with pain, the giant whirled his steel mace and 
aimed such a blow at the young knight that it must have 
killed him had it struck him. But, happily, it missed, 
and now the knight drew his sword, and before the giant 
could raise his mace again he was circling round and 
round him, hewing at the huge limbs with his sharp blade. 
Roaring with anger, the giant swung round and rushed 
at Valentine with such force that he bore both horse and 
rider to the ground. Then, with a horrible grin, the 
monster raised his club to deal a blow which would finish 
the work. 

“Now breathe thy last! ” he cried, raising the steel 
mace on high. But ere it could fall Ursine gave the giant 
such a blow with his oaken club that the huge creature 
tottered and sank to his knees. Ursine, quick to seize 
his advantage, aimed blow upon blow at the giant’s head, 
and with one mighty groan the monster died. 

Then Ursine turned his attention to his friend and 
master, and Valentine quickly revived under his skill and 
care. Then the two venturous youths repaired boldly to 
the castle to search it from wall to wall and set the giant’s 
unhappy captives free. 


78 


Valentine and Ursine 

They found the bones of many murdered knights 
within the dungeons, but there was no living man to be 
seen. The two youths began to think that the castle must 
be empty, but presently they came to a lonely cell some- 
what apart from the others, within which they found an 
unhappy lady. She was very sad and mournful, and 
though her face was very sweet and had been very beauti- 
ful, it was marred with the traces of the tears which she 
had shed. Valentine lifted her in his arms and brought 
her out of the dark cell, and begged her gently to tell him 
her story. It was some time before the poor lady was 
recovered enough to speak, but when at last they made 
her understand that the giant was dead, and that she was 
freed from her captivity, she began to tell Sir Valentine 
her mournful tale. 

“ Alas, young knight,” she said, weeping, “you see 
before you a wife who is husbandless, a mother who has 
lost her children. For twenty long years I have been 
imprisoned in that dreadful dungeon, longing for death, 
yet unable to die, forced to live and witness daily the 
unspeakable crimes committed by the monster whom you 
have slain. Know, then, that I am sister to a king. I 
was married in my early years to a mighty prince with 
whom I lived for one sweet twelvemonth in love and hap- 
piness. But some inhuman creature, jealous of our joy, 
came to my husband and made him believe ill of me. So 
cunningly were things contrived that the prince, my hus- 
band, believed me to be guilty of a terrible wrong. Filled 
with anger, he thrust me from him and sent me out into 
the world, bidding me never return to his kingdom upon 
pain of instant death. Attended only by one trusty 
knight, I set out with breaking heart to go back to my 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

brother’s country; but on the way I gave birth to two 
beautiful children, lovely boys, who, it seemed to me, 
would make amends for all my husband’s lack of love and 
care. 

“ But alas and alas ! As I lay alone in the great forest 
in which my children had been born — my trusty knight 
having gone forth in search of aid for me — a prowling 
bear seized one of my babes and bore him off into the 
wood. Wrapping my other son in my cloak, I rose to 
my feet, in spite of my weakness, and rushed after the 
creature; but, fainting on the way, I was unable to see 
which direction it took. For a long time I lay senseless 
on the ground, until at last my knight returned and 
brought me aid and help. But when we went back to 
the spot where I had left my other son, he too had dis- 
appeared, and neither of my pretty babes were ever seen 
again. We searched for them far and wide in the great 
forest, and while we were searching we met the dreadful 
giant whom you have just now slain, who killed my brave 
knight and carried me captive to his castle. He did me 
no harm, save that for twenty years he has kept me con- 
fined in the lonely cell in which you found me.” 

“ Surely, surely,” cried Valentine in great excitement, 
“you are the Lady Bellisance, sister of the King of 
France, and wife to the Grecian Emperor? I have been 
brought up in your royal brother’s court, and often have 
I heard the story of your wrongs and woes. Your husband 
has long since discovered that you were innocent of the 
crime of which you were accused, and he has sought you 
sorrowing throughout the world. But none knew whither 
you had fled, and when the Emperor could find no trace 
of his much-wronged wife he vowed in grief to live a 


Valentine and Ursine 

hermit’s life jvithin his court. Still does he mourn for 
you in deep affliction, and great will be his joy when he 
receives you safe and sound.” 

“ Heaven is kind indeed ! ” cried the poor lady, shed- 
ding tears of joy. “ Then I shall see my dear husband 
again, and in his arms perhaps find comfort for the grief 
of these past years. But, alas ! nothing can bring me back 
my little sons.” 

“ Madam,” said Valentine, kneeling before her, 
“ should you recognise the cloak in which you wrapped 
your babe, if you saw it again? ” And taking from his 
shoulder the golden mantle in which he had been found, 
and which he had brought with him on his travels to aid 
in the discovery of his parents, he spread it out before 
the lady’s eyes. 

The lady gave a shriek at the sight of it and fainted 
away, but Valentine revived her with the tenderest love 
and care ; and when she came to herself she found that he 
was indeed her son. She kissed him over and over again, 
then she looked at Ursine, who was standing beside his 
friend. 

“Who is this youth?” she said earnestly. “He 
resembles you so closely that if I did not know that the 
bear had devoured my other son I should say that this 
were he.” 

Valentine turned to look at Ursine with a sudden 
thought. 

“ Madam,” he said, “ this youth was bred with bears 
and reared within their den in the forest of Artois. Do 
you remember any mark by which you might know him 
again if indeed this were he? ” 

“Yes,” said the lady excitedly. “ Upon his side was 

G 81 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

a little mark, something like a blood-red rose in shape. 
I recollect it well because of the curious resemblance.” 

“ Ursine has such a mark upon his side ! ” cried Valen- 
tine. “ Oh, Ursine, you are my brother! In one hour 
I have found my father and my mother — and my most 
dear companion is proved to be my brother ! * ’ 

The lady clasped her new-found sons in her arms and 
kissed and embraced them again and again. When the 
happy family had recovered themselves a little they set 
out at once for the court of the King of France to bring 
him these joyful tidings. They reached the court without 
further adventures, and no words can paint the King’s 
delight when his dear sister was restored to him, and when 
he found that Valentine, whom he had loved as his own 
son, was his nephew. 

Messengers were dispatched with all speed to the 
Emperor of Greece, who, scarcely able to believe the 
happy tidings, came at once with great pomp to fetch 
home his beloved wife. For many long and happy years 
the lady and her lord lived together in their own country, 
and when at length they died, Ursine succeeded to their 
throne, and bore the sceptre long and well. Valentine 
stayed in France at his uncle’s court, to whom in due 
course he succeeded, and reigned and ruled with equity 
and justice over the fair realm. 

And thus ends the story of Valentine and Ursine. 


82 


The Jackdaw of Rheims 

T HE Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims sat in 
state in the great convent hall, presiding over the 
feast which was being held there. Bishops and 
abbots and priors surrounded him, monks and friars, 
knights and great nobles attended by their squires, and 
many other persons of lesser degree. One and all they 
looked at the great Cardinal with awe and wonder and 
served him upon bended knee. Never before had been 
seen such a great and wonderful and awe-inspiring person 
as the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims ! 

Only one person in all that goodly company did not 
seem to be afraid of the Cardinal. And that was hardly 
a person, perhaps. It was a little sleek jackdaw, a great 
pet of the Cardinal’s. The jackdaw alone seemed to have 
no awe of his illustrious master. He perched on the arm 
of the Cardinal’s chair, peering up into the great man’s 
face with a self-satisfied air, as though saying : 

“We two are the greatest folk here to-day.” 
Certainly the little bird seemed to have no awe of 
anyone ! He hopped all over the room, wherever he 
thought he would go, over the chairs and tables, over the 
cakes and comfits, over cowl and crosier, mitre and cope, 
rochet and pall, with a saucy air that struck terror into 
the hearts of the priests waiting with bated breath upon 
the Cardinal. 


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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

4 4 The devil himself must be in that little jackdaw ! ” 
they whispered to one another. 

Presently the feast came to an end. The long board 
was cleared, and six little singing boys in long white stoles 
came marching, two by two, through the grand refectory. 
One little boy held a golden ewer, engraved with the 
most beautiful designs, and filled with the purest water 
that flowed between Rheims and Namur. Another little 
boy held a golden hand-basin made to match. Tw t o more 
little boys carried lavender water and eau-de-Cologne, 
while yet another carried a cake of soap which was worthy 
of washing the hands of the Pope himself. And one 
little boy more bore a fine white napkin, with a cardinal’s 
hat marked upon it in red ink. 

The Lord Cardinal turned round in his chair at the 
sight of these little white-clad boys. From his finger 
he drew his ring, the seal and sign of his office — a wonder- 
ful ring set with a turquoise more costly than any other 
stone in his lordship’s possession. He put it down beside 
his plate, while the little boys came forward with due 
deference to wait upon His Eminence. Everybody was 
gazing at the sight of the great Lord Cardinal washing 
his hands ; nobody had a thought to spare for the little 
jackdaw. The singing-boys were intent upon the proper 
performance of their duties — it would be a dreadful thing 
if they handed the soap or towel out of order, or presented 
the lavender water at the wrong moment. The monks 
and priests were watching the Cardinal’s leisurely move- 
ments. Nobody was thinking about the ring, which lay 
unnoticed beside the Cardinal’s plate. At least, not 
quite unnoticed ! One sharp pair of eyes had spied it, 
and were glistening with delight at the sight of the great 

84 


The Jackdaw of Rheims 

shining stone. And when nobody was thinking of such 
a dreadful thing happening, that little jackdaw marched 
off with the ring ! 

Nobody saw him come and nobody saw him go, but 
when presently the Cardinal, having dried his hands upon 
the soft white towel and scented them with due ceremony, 
turned to put on the ring he had taken off, there was a 
terrible commotion. The ring had gone, and nobody 
knew what in the world could have happened to it. 

Everybody set to work to hunt for it, looking in every 
possible and impossible place. The friars were kneeling 
and hunting all along the floors and the walls. Dishes 
were lifted up, plates were examined, rugs were shaken, 
grates were poked and raked about — every monk in the 
building had his pockets turned inside out. The Cardinal 
drew off each of his plum-coloured slippers and peeped 
and felt about in the toes and heels, in case in some 
mysterious way the ring might have got inside one of 
them. But no — it was not there! The ring seemed to 
have disappeared completely; and the Abbot declared 
loudly that when nobody was looking some rascal must 
have popped in and stolen it. 

The Cardinal rose in his chair and called solemnly for 
his bell and his candle and his book. Then in holy anger 
and pious grief he cursed in a good old-fashioned manner 
the thief who had stolen his ring. 

It was a terrible curse : 

He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed ; 

From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ; 

He cursed him in sleeping that every night 

He should dream of the devil and wake in a fright ; 

He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking ; 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking ; 

He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying ; 

He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying ; 

He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying ! 

Never was heard such a dreadful curse ! But what 
astonished everybody was that no one seemed a penny 
the worse for it I 

The day passed away, the night came on, and still 
the monks and priests were searching for the ring, when 
suddenly in the midst of the company came limping a 
poor little lame jackdaw. He was no longer saucy and 
gay. His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong 
way about ; his pinions drooped ; he could hardly stand ; 
his bead had grown perfectly bald. So dim was his eye, 
so wasted were all his limbs, that, regardless of grammar, 
the whole assembly cried out excitedly : 

“ That’s him 1 

That’s the scamp who has done this scandalous thing ! 

That’s the thief who has got my Lord Cardinal’s ring ! ” 

The poor little jackdaw hopped up to the Cardinal’s 
feet, and gave a ghost of a caw, then turned round as 
though he would say : 

“ Please come with me,” and, full of eagerness, the 
whole company arose to follow him. Very, very slowly 
he limped before them, and led them to the belfry door. 
And there, amidst the straw and sticks of the jackdaw’s 
nest, the first thing they saw was the ring of the Cardinal ! 

The Cardinal called once more for his book, and 
then, in the presence of everyone, he took off that terrible 
curse. The piteous looks of the poor little bird were a 
sufficient confession of sorrow and penitence, and as he 
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The Jackdaw of Rheims 

had done all he could to atone for his fault by restoring 
the ring, he was entitled to free absolution. 

As the Cardinal pronounced the words which took off 
the curse the jackdaw was changed in a moment. Before 
the eyes of the astonished company he grew sleek and 
fat once more. A fresh crop of feathers came thick 
upon his head and body ; he no longer limped painfully 
along, dragging his wings behind him, but perked up 
in an instant and became as strong and lively as ever he 
was before. Indeed, his tail wagged more than ever, 
if that were possible. But it wagged with a great 
difference. No longer was his air saucy and impudent; 
no longer did he perch cheekily upon the Cardinal’s chair. 
Ever afterwards he hopped about with a devout gait, and 
attended matins and vespers more piously than any of 
the monks. Never again did he pilfer or steal, and if 
during prayer time anyone should slumber and happen 
to snore, the little jackdaw would sidle solemnly up to 
the offender and caw in a reproachful manner, as though 
saying : 

“I’ll let you off this time, but don’t do it again! ” 
In fact he was the most pious jackdaw that anyone had 
ever seen or heard of. 

For a long time he lived at Rheims, the pet and pride 
of the whole community, and when at last he died in the 
odour of sanctity he was mourned by everybody who had 
known him. And — 

As words were too faint his merits to paint 
The Conclave determined to make him a saint ; 

And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know, 

It’s the custom at Rome new names to bestow, 

So they canonised him by the name of “Jim Crow ” ! 

87 


The Red Cross Knight 

A KNIGHT was on te speeding over a wide plain 
bound on a great and glorious quest. He was 
dressed from head to foot in silver armour. On 
his arm he bore a silver shield, and on the shield and on 
his breast he wore a red cross in memory of his dying 
Lord, to show to all the world that he would only fight 
in the cause of right and true holiness. And because of 
the scarlet cross which he wore on his shield and on his 
breast he was always known as the Red Cross Knight. 

The Red Cross Knight belonged to the court of 
Queen Gloriana, the Queen of Fairyland, and it was at 
her command that he was riding forth on this adventure. 
By his side rode a lady who was very beautiful to look 
upon, but whose face was very sad and anxious. Her 
name was Una, and she was the daughter of a king and 
queen. Until a short time ago she had lived a happy, 
peaceful life, free from every pain and care, but a little 
while before a terrible dragon had come into her father’s 
country, laying waste all the land and destroying all who 
tried to drive him away. The king and queen had been 
obliged to fly from their palace, and had taken refuge in 
a brazen tower, in which they were now held captive by 
the monster. But their daughter Una had managed to 
escape, and had ridden to the court of the Fairy Queen 
to implore aid for her father and mother. When she told 


The Red Cross Knight 

her sad story in the Queen’s court the Red Cross Knight 
had sprung forward and begged the Queen to give him 
the quest, and Queen Gloriana had granted his prayer 
and sent him forth with Una to do battle against the 
dragon. 

So Una and the Red Cross Knight had ridden away 
together, attended only by a dwarf who had come with 
the princess. As they rode along they talked with one 
another, and soon the young knight fell deeply in love 
with the lady, who was as good and sweet as her face was 
beautiful. And Una learnt to return his love, for the 
Red Cross Knight was brave and manly and handsome, 
worthy to be loved even by a maiden as fair and good 
as she. 

They had not ridden very far upon their journey when 
a great storm came on, and, seeing a thick wood close by, 
the travellers hurried towards it to take shelter from the 
rain. The trees in this wood grew so thickly together 
that not a drop of wet could pierce through their leaves, 
and as there were many pleasant paths and alleys, the 
knight and his companion wandered deep into the forest, 
thinking it a very delightful place. All around them 
birds were singing, and they almost forgot the storm and 
tempest without in the calm and peace within. 

But after a while, when they wished to return in order 
to resume their journey, they found to their dismay that 
they could not find the path by which they came. To 
and fro they wandered, trying first one pathway, then 
another ; but it seemed as if they would never make their 
way out of the labyrinth of tangled alleys. Soon they 
became quite confused and lost their bearings altogether, 
and, not knowing which turning to take next, they decided 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

at last to follow the broadest and most trodden of the 
paths in the hope that it might lead them out of the wood. 
But it did not do so. Instead, it seemed to lead them ever 
deeper and deeper into the forest, until at last, in the very 
deepest and thickest part of all, they came upon the en- 
trance to a cave, half hidden in the tangle of brambles and 
bushes. 

The Red Cross Knight dismounted from his horse, and, 
sword in hand, advanced towards the cave, determined to 
see what might lurk within its dark shadows. 

“Oh, beware, lest you walk heedless into danger,” 
cried Una in alarm. “ It would be better, Sir Knight, to 
pass on and leave this dangerous place. Some dreadful 
peril may be hidden in the darkness of that cave.” 

“ Nay, lady,” said the knight, “ it would be disgrace 
for me if I turned back now for fear of a hidden danger. 
Surely you would not wish your champion to prove himself 
a coward? ” 

“ Ah, but I know better than you the dangers you will 
meet within that cave ! It is the den of the vile monster 
whom men call Error ; and though I would not have you 
prove a coward, neither would I that you should step 
heedless into peril.” 

The dwarf, who was fearful and timid, drew back in 
terror as Una said these words. 

“ Fly, fly! ” he cried. “ This is no place for living 
men ! ” And he ran back some way into the wood, and 
would have been*ghtd if his master and mistress had fled 
with him. But the young knight would not be stayed 
from this adventure, the first with which he had met since 
he had taken arms for the Fairy Queen. Grasping his 
sword in his hand, he entered the dark cavern, and by the 
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The Red Cross Knight 

aid of his shining armour, which lightened the gloom of the 
place, he saw a horrible monster lying coiled up in a corner 
of the den. In shape it was something like an enormous 
snake, and all around it lay a thousand little ones, as ugly 
and venomous-looking as their parent. 

When the light from the Red Cross Knight’s armour 
shone upon them, the young serpents fled to hide them- 
selves ; and the old snake tried to escape too, for she hated 
the light, and could only live in darkness. But the young 
knight was too quick for her. He sprang in front of her, 
and with his blade kept her from escaping, and then began 
a terrible fight. The monster, though she had tried to 
escape the battle, was brave enough now that she was 
cornered, and for a while it seemed as though she .would 
overcome the Red Cross Knight, for she wrapped her long 
tail about him and held him so close that he could stir 
neither hand nor foot. 

When Una saw this sight she cried out in terror. 

“ Oh, kill her, kill her, or she will surely kill you ! ” 

At Una’s cry, the Red Cross Knight made such a 
determined struggle for liberty that he succeeded in get- 
ting one hand free. Then he gripped the monster’s throat 
with such force that for very pain she was obliged to release 
her hold of him. The conflict was fierce and long, but the 
young knight fought valiantly, and at last the monster, 
Error, lay dead upon the ground with her head severed 
from her body. 

Then, full of joy, the Lady Una came near to welcome 
her champion. 

4 4 Fair knight,” she cried ; 44 born under a happy star, 
you have indeed fought well in this your first adventure ! 
By killing this monster you have proved yourself worthy 

01 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

to bear arms on knightly quests. I pray that, wherever 
you go and whatever perils befall you, you may always 
fight as well and valiantly as you have fought to-day, and 
win as great success.” 

The young knight flushed with happiness at her words 
of praise, then, mounting his horse again, he and Una 
resumed their journey. This time they were successful 
in discovering a path out of the wood, and they went for- 
ward on their way, the knight looking eagerly for fresh 
adventures in which he might prove his valour and skill 
and earn fresh honour in his lady’s eyes. 

After they had ridden for some time they met an old 
man who appeared to be a hermit. He was dressed all in 
black ; and with his bare feet, and his long grey beard, and 
his quiet, sad manner of walking, he seemed to be some 
holy man who had abandoned the world and had given 
himself up to prayers and penitence. He bowed humbly 
when he saw the knight and Una; and the Red Cross 
Knight, returning his salutation courteously, asked him 
whether he knew of any great adventure close at hand. 
But the old man shook his head. 

“ Alas ! my dear son,” he said. “ How should an old 
hermit, living alone in a desolate cell hear of tidings of 
war and other worldly troubles ? Although, indeed, if it 
be of danger merely you would know, I could tell you of 
a peril that does indeed lurk near by, though I am not sure 
that you would deem the adventure worthy for a knightly 
quest. Not far from here there dwells a wild man, who 
descends upon the countryside and lays waste all these 
fertile lands. If you would but rid the world of him you 
would be doing mankind a great service.” 

“ Ah, that is just the sort of adventure I want to know 


The Red Cross Knight 

about,” cried the Red Cross Knight. 44 It is a disgrace 
to all true knighthood that such a creature should be 
allowed to live ! Show me where he lives, good sir, and I 
will reward you well.” 

44 He lives in the midst of a barren wilderness,” 
answered the old man. 44 And no living creature may find 
him without much danger and difficulty, but if you like I 
will show you the way.” 

44 Night is drawing on,” said Una, interposing. 44 And 
I know, Sir Knight, that you are wearied with your fight 
against the serpent. Therefore, I counsel you to take rest 
now with the sun, and to-morrow, with new day, begin 
new work.” 

44 Right well have you been advised, Sir Knight,” said 
the old man. 44 Day, truly, is spent ; therefore, come and 
spend the hours of darkness with me, and when the day 
breaks you shall take up your new adventure.” 

This proposal seemed good to the Red Cross Knight, 
and he and Una and the dwarf followed the hermit to his 
lodging — a little, lowly hermitage in a wood. Close by 
the hermits’ cell stood a little chapel, and a stream of pure 
water flowed out from a sacred fountain. It was a pleasant, 
peaceful spot, where the travellers were glad to sit and 
rest ; and they spent the evening talking to the old man 
in great contentment, never dreaming that evil could 
befall them in such a holy place. 

Presently, when darkness fell, the hermit conducted 
his guests to the beds he had prepared for them. With 
gentle words of blessing he wished them good night ; but 
when he had left them to their sleep and had gone back 
to his own cell, a sudden change came over his counten- 
ance. No longer did he seem the holy, good old man the 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

travellers had thought him, but instead he appeared in his 
real guise, which was that of a terrible magician. For the 
old hermit was none other than Archimago, an enemy of 
Una’s, and he had invited the two travellers to spend the 
night with him, meaning to do them some dreadful harm. 
He hated Una especially, for he had heard of her truth 
and goodness, and he always hated anyone who was good 
and true. He knew, however, that as long as Una and 
the Red Cross Knight were together he could not harm 
them, so he had made up his mind to separate them from 
one another. 

Archimago had at his bidding a legion of evil spirits, 
who were always ready to obey his will. He now chose 
out two of these spirits, and one of them he sent on an 
errand to Morpheus, who ruled over the land of sleep, 
asking him to send by the spirit an evil dream which he 
could give to the Red Cross Knight — a dream which would 
seem to the knight to be real and true when he awoke in 
the morning. The other spirit he dressed up to resemble 
the Lady Una, and so well did he do this that at first sight 
it seemed impossible to tell the difference between the real 
Princess and the false one. Then, when the first spirit 
had returned with the dream, he dressed him up to look 
like a strange knight, and so, having laid his wicked plans, 
he began his work. 

First of all he sent the wicked dream to the Red Cross 
Knight, and it seemed to the young knight that he saw 
his lady, the beautiful Una, whom he loved so dearly, do 
something that was very wicked and wrong. And then, 
while the knight was lying, tossing to and fro uneasily in 
sleep, troubled by the dream which seemed to him to be 
real, the old man came to him and woke him up. 

94 


The Red Cross Knight 

“Alas! Sir Knight,” cried the wicked magician. 
“ Your fair lady is false to you ! She loves not you, but 
another knight, whom she meets even now in the forest. 
She has lied to you all along, and has only enticed you 
hither to leave you now that her own knight has come. 
Come and see if I speak not true.” And he led the young 
knight, still drowsy with sleep, to the place where he had 
left the false Una and the spirit he had dressed up to 
resemble a strange knight. And when the Red Cross 
Knight saw the two figures together he thought that all 
Archimago told him was true. Una did not really love 
him, he thought. She had found another knight to be her 
champion. And, filled with grief and anger and indig- 
nation and jealousy, he rushed out of the hermitage, and, 
calling to the dwarf to accompany him, he took his horse 
and his armour and left the place without even waiting 
to say good-bye to Una. 

“ She does not need me now ; she has another knight,” 
he said to himself ; and full of anger at the manner in 
which he thought Una had treated him, he rode away as 
fast as he could. If he had only waited he would have 
seen that the hermit’s story was not true, for had he gone 
closer he must have seen that the dressed-up figure was not 
Una at all. But he did not wait, and so began a time 
of trouble and unhappiness, both for himself and for the 
gentle maiden whom he had left alone and all unprotected 
in the hermit’s cell. 

When morning broke and Una awoke from her sleep 
and found that her two companions had fled in the night 
and left her all alone, she was filled with grief and dismay. 
She could not understand how the Red Cross Knight could 
have behaved in such an unknightly manner ; but she felt 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

sure that someone had been making mischief between 
them, and, mounting her own steed, she set out at once 
to try to overtake her champion and find out what it was 
that had made him behave so strangely. 

But the knight had urged his horse on so fast that it 
was impossible for Una to overtake him. She was only 
mounted upon an ass, a beautiful beast, as white as snow 
in colour, but though sure-footed and faithful, it could not 
journey as fast as the young knight’s charger. But though 
it seemed almost hopeless for Una to think of overtaking 
the knight, yet she would not give up her quest. She 
wandered on, seeking her companion over hill and dale, 
grieving to think that she had been so ruthlessly deserted 
by the knight whom she had learnt to love so dearly, and 
who had seemed so brave and honourable and true. 

When Archimago saw Una riding after her knight, 
deserted and alone, he was filled with joy. Now at last, 
he thought, he would be able to take vengeance upon her 
for her truth and goodness. Una had never done the 
magician any harm, indeed she had never met him before, 
but Archimago could not bear to think that anyone in 
the world should be as sweet and pure and true as Una 
was, and he had determined to do her all the harm and 
evil that was in his power. He was able to disguise him- 
self as he wished, and now he made himself appear like 
the Red Cross Knight. By the aid of his magic arts he 
clothed himself in a suit of silver armour, with a shield 
bearing a scarlet cross, exactly like the armour and the 
shield carried by the young knight, and when he was 
mounted upon a horse with his visor down, he looked so 
like Una’s champion that even Una with her clear eyes 
could not have told them apart. Then, having satisfied 


The Red Cross Knight 

himself that his disguise was complete, Archimago set off 
after Una. 

Una, meanwhile, had wandered far away in the search 
for the Red Cross Knight. For many days and nights she 
rode on, but she found no trace of him, and at last she grew 
so lonely and unhappy and miserable that she was almost 
tempted to give up her search in despair. 

One day, when she had been riding for a long time, 
she grew so tired that she dismounted from her ass and 
lay down on the grass to rest. She put aside the long 
veil she wore, and rested her head on her arm, and so 
beautiful did she look that it seemed as though her sweet 
face made sunshine in the shady place. Suddenly, as 
she rested, a fierce lion sprang out of the bushes beside 
her and rushed towards her as though he would have 
devoured her on the spot. But when he drew near and 
saw her wonderful beauty he suddenly became quite tame 
and mild. He crept up to her humbly, and licked her 
soft white hand and weary feet as though he knew how 
wronged and innocent she was. 

When Una saw how the fierceness of the lion had 
turned to gentleness she began to cry a little for the first 
time since she had been deserted. 

“ The very beasts of the field have pity upon me,” she 
said to herself. “But he who should have been beside 
me, comforting me in my affliction, has left me all 
alone.” 

The lion crept closer when he saw her tears, as though 
he would have comforted her if he could, and presently 
Una dried her eyes, and mounting her steed once more, 
set out again on her .weary search. The lion would not 
leave her desolate, but walked still beside her, having 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

seemingly made himself her companion, and her faithful 
guardian and guide. 

Thus accompanied by the lion, Una came at last to a 
lonely hut where a blind woman lived with her daughter. 
They dwelt in great poverty and ignorance, and like 
many ignorant people they were very unjust and unkind. 
Una saw the daughter outside the hut with a pitcher of 
water on her shoulder, and she asked the girl if she would 
give her shelter for the night. But when the girl saw 
the lion she was frightened and rushed inside the hut, 
and barred the door against the traveller. 

Una knocked at the door many times, begging them to 
open it and let her in, as she was faint and weary and 
would fain lie down and rest. She promised that the lion 
would not hurt them ; but still the blind woman and her 
daughter held fast the door, until at last the lion, in rage 
at the treatment his dear lady w T as receiving, flung himself 
against it and burst it open. 

The two foolish women fled shrieking into a corner, 
but Una soothed their fears with gentle words, and at 
last they grudgingly allowed her to lie down and rest. 
The lion lay down at her feet to guard her, but, for all that 
she was so tired, Una could not sleep. She lay thinking 
all the while of her lost knight, wondering where he was, 
and praying that no harm might befall him. 

In the middle of the night a wicked man came to the 
hut and knocked at the door. He was a robber, and he 
was in the habit of bringing the things he stole to the 
blind woman and her daughter to take care of. On this 
night he came laden with a great bag of stolen goods and 
knocked at the door as he was used to do. But this time 
nobody answered his knock, for the two women jyere too 


The Red Cross Knight 

much afraid of the lion to rise and let him in. He con- 
tinued to knock loudly, and at last in a great rage he broke 
open the door and would have rushed into the hovel had 
not the lion sprung at his throat and killed him on the spot, 
for the faithful creature feared that he would do some 
harm to Una. 

This naturally made the two women more frightened 
than ever, and they were glad when at last daylight came 
and Una and the lion went on their journey once more. 
Then they came out of their corner and wept and lamented 
over the body of the dead robber. They ran after Una, 
accusing her of being the cause of all their trouble, and 
crying out that they hoped that sorrow and unhappiness 
would speedily overtake her. 

Una tried not to listen to their unkind words. Accom- 
panied by her faithful lion, she kept steadfastly on her way, 
and after a while the two women turned back. As they 
neared their home again they met the wicked Archimago, 
disguised as the Red Cross Knight. He was seeking for 
Una, whom he had traced to this place, and he asked the 
two women if they had seen anything of her. Then the 
blind woman broke out into fresh railing against Una ; and 
the magician, understanding from her confused tale that 
Una was not far away, was filled with rejoicing. He pre- 
tended to sympathise with the friends of the dead robber, » 
and he soon induced the blind woman to tell him which 
way Una had gone. Then he rode after her, thinking 
to himself that he would soon have the gentle maiden in 
his power. 

It was not long before he overtook Una, but when he 
saw the lion by her side he was frightened and did not 
dare to draw any nearer. But Una had seen him, and, 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

thinking that it was her own true knight, she rode towards 
him with a cry of joy. 

“ Ah, my dear lord ! ” she said. “ Where have you 
been this long while? I feared that I had grievously 
displeased you, and I have sought you long and 
sorrowing.” 

“ My dearest lady,” said the pretended knight. 
“Never would I forsake you! How could you think 
such ill of me ? I went but forth to seek adventure against 
the wicked man of whom the hermit told me. But now 
he will do no more harm ; and now that I have found 
you, my dear fair lady, once more, I vow that never will 
I leave you again.” 

All the trouble and sorrow was lifted from Una’s heart 
when she heard these words. So she had not been mis- 
taken in her knight after all. The joy of the present 
moment made amends for all her grief, and she rode beside 
the pretended knight, feeling that the whole world had 
suddenly grown beautiful again. 

Meanwhile, where was the real Red Cross Knight? 

When he had left the Lady Una he had wandered far 
away, for now he had no quest before him, and there was 
nothing save his own will to direct his path. He was very 
unhappy to think that Una, who had seemed so true and 
pure and loving, should all the while have been false to 
him in her heart. As he rode along, his mind filled with 
angry, bitter thoughts, he saw coming towards him a 
knight and a lady. The knight was big and powerful, 
and clad in strong armour, while on his shield was written 
his name in bright, shining letters, “ Sans Foy.” This 
knight was a Saracen, and cared neither for God nor man. 
He was always ready to attack those brave knights who 
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The Red Cross Knight 

rode out to do battle against wrong and wickedness, for 
he counted all such as his enemies. 

The lady who was riding with him was called Duessa. 
She, too, was careless and wicked. She practised magic 
arts, and by her sorceries had done much harm and mis- 
chief. She also hated all those who fought against evil, 
and when she saw the red cross on the young knight’s 
shield she knew that he belonged to Queen Gloriana’s 
court, and, turning to her companion, she urged him to 
overthrow the Christian knight. Nothing loath, the 
Saracen rode at the Red Cross Knight and attacked him 
with such fury that he almost overbore him at the onset. 

But the Red Cross Knight was learning skill at arms. 
Quickly recovering himself, he drew his sword and 
attacked his enemy in his turn. Long and fierce was the 
battle, but, thanks to the charm of the Red Cross which 
he bore on his shield and breast, he was able to overcome 
his adversary, and, bearing Sans Foy from the saddle, 
he laid him dead upon the ground. 

When Duessa saw that her champion was slain she 
did not stay to mourn over his body, but fled away in 
terror. The Red Cross Knight, telling the dwarf to bring 
with him the shield of the dead warrior in token of victory, 
hurried after her, and when he had caught her up, told 
her not to be frightened for he made no war on women. 

“ Tell me who you are,” he said gently, “ and who 
was the knight who w r as with you ? I was sorry indeed to 
have to kill him, but it was he who attacked me, and his 
overthrow was but the fortune of battle. If you will tell 
me your name I will do all I can to relieve your distress.” 

The lady, who was a very good actress, burst into tears 
and told the young knight a wonderful tale. She said that 
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she was named Fidessa, and that she was the daughter of 
an emperor, and had been betrothed to a great king. 
But on the very eve of her wedding-day the king had fallen 
into the hands of enemies and had been killed. She had 
gone out to look for his dead body that she might mourn 
over it, and in her wanderings had been taken captive by 
the Saracen knight. 

“ His name was Sans Foy,” she said. “ And he has 
two brothers, Sans Loy and Sans Joy, both as bad and 
wicked as himself. I am thankful that you have delivered 
me from this terrible man, and I pray you now to have 
pity upon me, for I am so friendless and miserable that 
you can hardly wish me any further ill. 5 ? 

“ Fair lady,” cried the young knight, his heart full of 
compassion, “ indeed I will do you no harm! Your sad 
story would move the hardest heart to pity, and if you 
will let me I will ride with you to see that no further harm 
befall you. You may trust me to be your faithful friend 
and knight if you will but take me to be your champion.” 

The lady accepted the young knight’s offer of help 
with many expressions of gratitude ; and the two rode on 
together, followed by the dwarf. The Red Cross Knight 
rejoiced exceedingly to think that he had once more a 
quest on which to ride. He had no suspicion that the lady 
was deceiving him, that her name was not Fidessa at all, 
and that the story she had told him was quite untrue. 
She had been a friend and lover of the dead knight, Sans 
Foy, not his captive ; and she only spoke gently to the 
Red Cross Knight because she was afraid of him, and 
because she thought that by speaking him fair she would 
find it easier to do him harm than if she openly declared 
herself to be his enemy. 


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The Red Cross Knight 

The Red Cross Knight now felt almost happy again. 
He could never care for Duessa, or Fidessa, as he thought 
she was, in the same way in which he had cared for Una, 
but he thought that his new lady was very fair and sweet, 
and in his pity for her he began to fall in love with her. 
Presently, when the sun was high in the heavens, the two 
travellers began to feel the heat of his rays, so they dis- 
mounted from their horses and sat down in the shade of 
two great trees which grew side by side, and talked with 
one another. The knight grew more and more enam- 
oured of his fair companion, and after a while he stretched 
out his hand and plucked off a bough from one of the 
trees, intending to weave a garland for Duessa’s brow. 
But no sooner had he plucked the bough than there came a 
sound of sighing and moaning from the tree, and a sad 
voice said : 

“ Oh, spare me ! Pluck not my branches, but flee 
hastily from this spot lest the same evil should happen to 
you which happened to me here, and to my dear lady. 
For we are not trees in reality, but a knight and his lady, 
turned into our present forms by a cruel sorceress named 
Duessa. I pray you beware of this wicked woman should 
she ever cross your path.” 

The Red Cross Knight started to his feet in horror 
and indignation. 

“Is there nothing I can do?” he cried, his heart 
filled with pity for the unhappy lovers. “ Tell me how I 
may help you, and I will gladly do all in my power to free 
you from this dreadful enchantment ! ” 

“ Alas ! there is nothing you can do to help us,” sighed 
the tree that had once been a knight. “ Time alone shall 
release us from our prison. But now go, else if Duessa 

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discover you here some terrible evil may befall 
you also.” 

Since there was nothing which he could do to help the 
unfortunate captives, the Red Cross Knight turned to 
leave the fatal spot. But when he turned to his lady he 
found that she had fainted quite away. The young knight 
thought that it was in horror and pity of the story she had 
heard, but really it was fear that had made her faint. For 
she was Duessa, the wicked enchantress, and she was 
terribly afraid that the Red Cross Knight should discover 
her real name. The Red Cross Knight, however, never 
guessed at the real reason for her terror. He had no 
idea that she was Duessa, and, lifting the fainting lady in 
his arms, he fanned her and soothed her and did his best 
to bring her back to life. And when at last she opened 
her eyes he kissed her tenderly, begging her to have no 
fear since he was there to protect her. And when she 
was a little recovered he set her on her steed again, and 
led her gently away from that sad spot. 

The two companions travelled on together, Duessa 
showing the knight the way. Presently they came in 
sight of a stately palace, all shining with gold and adorned 
with many lofty towers and glittering pinnacles. This 
beautiful building was the Palace of Pride, and for all it 
looked so fair it was really a house of great wickedness. 
It was built upon the frailest of foundations, so that at any 
moment it might have collapsed altogether, though nobody 
could have guessed this because it was so strong and 
beautiful to look at. 

Duessa led the Red Cross Knight into this palace. 
She took him through the outer halls, where all sorts of 
people, rich and poor, were waiting in the hope of seeing 
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“They came in sight of a stately palace — the Palace of Pride. 






The Red Cross Knight 

the beautiful woman who was queen of this wonderful 
place. Right into the innermost hall of all she led him, 
and there on a gorgeous throne sat the Queen of Pride 
herself, dressed in the richest robes, all hung with costly 
jewels. 

Duessa took the knight’s hand and led him up to the 
Queen’s footstool. Then, kneeling before her, she said 
that they had come to see her royal state and do her 
homage. 

The proud Queen scarcely deigned to lift her eyes to 
look at the travellers, but she thanked them for their 
words, and then the lords and ladies standing around came 
up to bid the strangers welcome. They all knew Duessa, 
and greeted her warmly, and they were polite to the Red 
Cross Knight since he came with her. But the young 
knight thought that all the gold and glitter of the crowd 
was worthless and vain, and that a queen who showed no 
.greater courtesy to a strange knight than this lady had 
shown was not deserving of the name of queen. 

While the Red Cross Knight and Duessa were staying 
at the Palace of Pride a new arrival came to the Queen’s 
court. On his shield his name was written in red letters, 
“ Sans Joy.” He was the brother of Sans Foy whom the 
Red Cross Knight had slain in combat, and when he saw 
the shield of the pagan knight, which the dwarf was carry- 
ing, he was filled with fury, and springing towards the 
dwarf he snatched it away. 

The Red Cross Knight, however, was not going to let 
the shield which he had won in fair and open conflict be 
taken from him without a struggle. He attacked the new 
arrival with great vigour, and soon recovered possession 
of his trophy. 


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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Sans Joy was prepared to fight fiercely to avenge the 
death of his brother and to regain the shield, and the Red 
Cross Knight was quite prepared to resist him ; but here 
the Queen of the Palace of Pride intervened, and ordered 
them to cease their struggle. 

44 If either of you have a right to the shield you shall 
fight for it in open battle,” she said, “not here. To- 
morrow you shall enter the lists against each other, and 
there decide which of you has the greater right to the 
trophy.” 

That night, while all in the palace slept, the false 
Duessa crept to the room where the pagan knight, Sans 
Joy, was resting. She told him of all that had happened 
to his brother, and made him promise to do his utmost to 
kill the Red Cross Knight. 

44 He has treated me very cruelly,” she said, 44 and I 
would fain see his pride brought low. But, oh, Sans 
Joy, be careful ! For he bears an enchanted shield against 
which none can stand. His armour, too, is enchanted 
because of the power of the scarlet cross he wears upon his 
breast, so that it seems wellnigh impossible for any mortal 
weapon to penetrate it.” 

4 4 What care I for enchanted shields? ” cried Sans Joy 
in scorn. 44 Am I not the strongest knight that ever 
carried arms? Fear not, lady, this knight of yours shall 
be overthrown, enchantment or no enchantment ! ” 

Duessa was pleased when she heard these bold words. 

44 Fight and conquer, brave Sans Joy,” she said. 
44 And when you have won the victory over my enemy 
the shield shall be yours, and I, too, since I love you only 
second to the dead Sans Foy.” 

Then, having promised Sans Joy all the help of her 
106 


The Red Cross Knight 

magic powers should he be in need of her aid, she went 
back to her own room. 

The next day the two knights came together into the 
lists where the battle was to be held. The Queen of 
Pride was there with all her attendants, and false Duessa 
too. Duessa pretended to the Red Cross Knight that 
she wanted him to win, but all the while she was hoping 
that he would be overthrown and killed by Sans Joy. 

Soon the trumpets sounded, and the two knights rode 
fiercely at each other, meeting with such a clash of arms 
that both of them reeled back from the shock. Sans Joy 
was stout and strong, and his blows fell on his opponent 
like blows from an iron hammer. But the Red Cross 
Knight, though he was younger and slighter than his 
enemy, fought with equal fierceness and courage, and in 
his heart there burnt a great fire of love and purity. He 
was fighting for honour and for right, and the justice of 
his cause gave him a strength against his adversary which 
the latter did not possess. For Sans Joy fought only for 
vengeance and for base, unworthy motives. 

For some time the two fought on, neither seeming to 
gain any advantage over the other. Then suddenly Sans 
Joy caught sight of his brother’s shield, which the Queen 
had caused to be hung up in full view of everyone. And 
when Sans Joy saw the shield he was filled with redoubled 
fury, and, pressing forward, he dealt the Red Cross 
Knight such a terrible blow that the young warrior reeled 
backwards. He struggled hard to recover himself, but it 
seemed that he had been too badly hurt, and that he must 
now fall to the ground and be killed. 

When Duessa saw this she sprang up and cried out 
joyfully : 


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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“Oh, brave Sans Joy! Thine is the shield, and I 
and all ! ” 

Her voice sounded in the ears of the Red Cross Knight. 
He could not hear the words she said because of the faint- 
ness that was threatening to overcome him ; but he recog- 
nised her voice, and he thought that she was crying to 
him to renew the struggle. The thought seemed to give 
him sudden strength. He recovered himself instantly. 
With a tremendous effort he sprang forward and struck at 
his enemy with such a fierce blow that Sans Joy, taken 
quite by surprise, sank down on his knees, overcome. 

With great dismay, Duessa saw that Sans Joy was 
about to meet with the same fate that had befallen his 
brother. Frantically she summoned her magic powers in 
order to save him. And just as the Red Cross Knight 
lifted his sword above his head, intending to bring it down 
with a mighty sweep that would vanquish Sans Joy for 
ever, she threw a mist of blackness and darkness over the 
fallen knight. 

The Red Cross Knight stayed his blow in astonish- 
ment. His enemy had completely vanished, and though 
he called aloud to him and tried to pierce the veil that had 
descended between him and his foe he received no answer. 
And while he was still staring about him in amazement 
Duessa rose from her seat and came running towards him. 

“ Oh, bravest knight that ever lady chose to be her 
love,” she cried aloud. “You have conquered! The 
shield is yours, and I am yours also.” 

While the young knight still stood, dazed and wonder- 
ing, the heralds came towards him, blowing their trumpets 
and hailing him as the victor. They led him to the Queen, 
and, kneeling before her, the Red Cross Knight offered 
108 


The Red Cross Knight 

her his service, which she accepted graciously. Although 
she had treated him with such scorn the day before, yet 
now r that the young knight had proved himself so brave 
and skilful in battle, she was willing enough to accept him 
as a follower. Then all the company went back to the 
Palace of Pride, the Red Cross Knight riding in the place 
of honour beside the Queen, while all the people pressed 
around him, shouting and clapping their hands, and 
praising him for his skill and bravery. 

When the procession reached the palace the knight 
was taken to his own chamber, and there his wounds were 
bathed and dressed, and he was laid on the softest and 
whitest of couches. Soft music played around his bed, 
and everything possible was done to soothe and 
cheer him. 

While the Red Cross Knight was being so carefully 
tended by the Queen’s servants Duessa stole from the 
palace and went to the place where she had left Sans Joy 
concealed by the enchanted cloud. He was grievously 
wounded and full of sorrow. Duessa hastened to the 
kingdom of the Queen of Night, who was a great friend 
of hers, and persuaded her to carry Sans Joy away to her 
own palace that he might be healed. Together the two 
women went to the spot where Sans Joy lay in a deep 
swoon. Lifting him gently, they laid him on the chariot 
of the Queen of Night and carried him to the underground 
world, where a wise man, who was very skilful in the use 
of herbs, promised to restore the pagan knight to life and 
strength. Then Duessa said good-bye to the Queen of 
Night and went back to the Palace of Pride. 

But when she arrived there she found that the Red 
Cross Knight had gone. While she had been away the 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

knight’s page, the dwarf who had once been Una’s attend- 
ant, had discovered that in the palace there were deep 
and horrible dungeons full of miserable prisoners, knights 
and ladies of high degree, who had all fallen into the power 
of the Queen of Pride, and were now doomed to spend 
their days in dreary captivity. When he heard the dwarf’s 
tale the knight made up his mind to leave this dreadful 
place. Duessa had disappeared, and he could not learn 
what had become of her, but afraid to stay any longer in 
such a house of wickedness, the young man rose up very 
early in the morning, and he and the dwarf stole away 
together. So it was that when Duessa returned she found 
that her knight had fled. 

But Duessa did not mean to let the young knight 
escape her, and when she found that he was no longer in 
the palace she set out in search of him. It was not long 
before she overtook him, for the Red Cross Knight was 
not yet healed of his wounds, and he was soon wearied of 
riding. He had dismounted beside a cool fountain, and, 
taking off his armour, had sat down on the ground. He 
was tired and weary and sad of heart, partly at having 
parted from Duessa, but mostly because he thought Una 
had been untrue to him. For, in spite of all that had 
happened, it was Una, his first love, whom he really cared 
for the most. Here, as he rested in the shade of the trees 
that surrounded the fountain, Duessa found him, and, 
flinging herself on the grass beside him, she began to 
upbraid him and reproach him for leaving her. 

The Red Cross Knight was very glad to see Duessa 
again, and he set to work to try to win her to a better 
frame of mind. The lady soon allowed herself to be 
coaxed into a better humour, and then she and the knight 
no 


The Red Cross Knight 

sat and talked pleasantly together .while the summer hours 
sped on. 

After a while the knight grew thirsty, and seeing the 
fresh water of the fountain trickling so temptingly by 
him, he stooped down to drink. But this water, for all 
it looked so pure and fresh, had the power of making 
anyone who drank it weak and feeble. Duessa knew this, 
but the young knight did not, and all unsuspecting he 
stooped down and drank his fill of the clear water. 

At first he felt no harm, but presently a chill crept over 
him. He grew sick and faint, and his courage melted 
away. Still he lay on the grass and talked cheerfully to 
Duessa, for he thought that it was but momentary weak- 
ness and would soon pass away. 

But it did not pass. And as the knight lay, all weak 
and feeble on the ground, a terrible noise was heard, and 
a wicked giant, named Orgoglio, came striding up. He 
hated all that was knightly and good, and when he saw the 
cross on the knight’s armour he gave a furious roar that 
sounded like a clap of thunder and sprang upon the Red 
Cross Knight. And as the knight was unarmed, and 
feeble and faint from having drunken of the weakening 
fountain, he soon overpowered him, and would have killed 
him then and there had not Duessa interceded for him. 
Duessa did not wish to let the knight die yet. She wished 
to be revenged upon him for having killed Sans Foy and 
injured Sans Joy, and she thought that death at the giant’s 
hands as he lay swooning on the ground was far too easy 
a way for him to die. She hurried forward and stretched 
out her hands to the giant, crying : 

“ Oh, great Orgoglio, spare him for my sake ! Cast 
him into your deepest dungeon. Treat him as cruelly as 
ill 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

you like so that he may suffer many pains before he die, 
and I will reward you with my hand.” 

The giant was only too pleased to agree to Duessa’s 
proposal. He lifted up the body of the unconscious 
knight and carried him to his castle, where he flung 
him into a deep and horrible dungeon. Then he 
made Duessa his wife, and gave her rule over all his 
palace. 

When the little dwarf saw his master fall he waited 
until the giant had gone, and then, creeping out from the 
place where he had hidden himself, he took up the silver 
armour, and the sword and the spear which had done 
such good service in the cause of right and justice, and laid 
them upon the back of the knight’s horse. Then, sor- 
rowing for the loss of his brave master, he set out to try 
to find Una and tell her his sad news. 

Now let us turn back to Una and see how her fortune 
fared. 

We left her riding beside the wicked Archimago, 
whom she believed to be her own true knight. The two 
had not ridden far when they saw another knight riding 
swiftly towards them. He looked very strong and power- 
ful, and he was fully armed. On the shield which he car- 
ried was engraven his name, “ Sans Loy.” He was the 
brother of the two pagan knights, Sans Foy and Sans Joy, 
and he was seeking the Red Cross Knight in order to 
avenge their blood upon him. 

When he saw Archimago disguised in the young 
knight’s form his heart gave a leap of exultation. Here 
was his enemy at last, and, levelling his spear, he rode 
furiously at him without stopping to ask any questions. 
Archimago trembled with fear. He had never fought a 
112 


The Red Cross Knight 

battle in his life, and at the first attack he was easily 
borne from his horse and stretched helplessly upon the 
ground. 

“ Now will I take revenge for my brother’s death ! ” 
cried Sans Loy, and, springing from his horse, he ran 
towards the fallen man, sword in hand, determined to slay 
him then and there, in spite of Una’s piteous entreaties. 
He seized his enemy’s helmet and drew it off, and then 
stopped still in astonishment, for instead of the Red Cross 
Knight, there lay Archimago. 

“Why, Archimago,” he cried, “what is this? I 
thought to slay my enemy, and now I find I have wounded 
my friend. How has this come to pass? ” 

But Archimago was too terrified to speak. He lay 
motionless on the ground, as though in a trance, and wast- 
ing no more time over him, Sans Loy turned to Una. He 
seized the veil which hung over her face and tore it away, 
and when he saw how fair and lovely she was his .wicked 
heart was filled with joy. 

“Now you are mine,” he cried. “ I have won you 
and I will keep you ! ” And he was about to throw his 
arms about her when the lion, who all this while had 
stayed faithfully beside his lady, sprang at him with a 
savage roar. The pagan knight turned to meet him, 
sword in hand, and after a short tussle, stretched the 
faithful beast dead upon the ground. 

Poor Una wept bitterly when she saw that her dear 
lion was killed, but Sans Loy had no pity for her tears. 
Seizing her roughly in his arms, he set her on his horse, 
and springing up behind her, he rode away, paying not 
the slightest heed to her cries and piteous entreaties. 
Una’s white ass followed behind them. He would not 

I 113 


My Book of Storks from the Poets 

leave his mistress, yet was afraid to keep too close for fear 
of the wild lawless man who had captured her. 

Una was now in a terrible plight, and there seemed 
to be no way of escape for her. Sans Loy rode on until 
they came to a dark forest, and then he stopped for a little 
while to give his horse rest. Una redoubled her cries for 
help, for it seemed to her that this would be the last 
chance she would have of rescue, though she had little 
hope of help coming to her now. 

But help did come in a wonderful way. The forest 
was inhabited by a race of curious little creatures called 
satyrs. They were half goats and half men, and they 
lived a wild, free life amongst the woods. When they 
heard Una’s cries they ran hastily to see what was the 
matter; and when they appeared Sans Loy, terrified at 
their strange shapes, forgot all about his captive, and, 
springing on to his horse, rode hastily away. 

When the wood creatures saw Una’s beautiful face, 
marred and stained though it was by the tears she had 
shed, they were amazed by her loveliness. Una shrank 
back from them, fearing that fresh danger awaited her, 
but the satyrs, savages though they were, were so touched 
by her beauty and helplessness that they did her no harm. 
They made her welcome and gave her food and drink, and 
Una lived in the forest with these kindly folk for some 
time. They treated her almost as though she had been 
a queen, and in the calm, peaceful life she led with them 
Una began to recover from her weariness and terror. 

One day a knight came to the forest, named Sir 
Satyrane. He had been brought up by the satyrs since he 
was a baby, and they had taught him to be brave and 
fearless and strong. When he grew old enough he had 
114 


The Red Cross Knight 

gone out into the world in search of adventures like other 
brave knights ; but always, when his quests were over, 
he came back to the forest to live for a little while amongst 
his old forest friends. 

When he saw Una he fell deeply in love with the 
beautiful, gentle maiden, and he soon became fast friends 
with her. Una told him her story, and how she ,was still 
seeking for the Red Cross Knight. Sir Satyrane was very 
sad when he heard that Una loved another knight, but 
he was too noble and chivalrous to wish to keep her with 
him against her will. He promised to go with her and 
protect her until she found the Red Cross Knight again, 
and one day the two rode away together from the forest, 
Una mounted once more upon her white ass, which had 
followed her to the woods, and set out in search of the 
knight whom Una loved so dearly. 

All day they travelled, and as evening approached they 
met an old man who appeared to be a pilgrim, for he was 
clothed in travel-stained dress, and hfe carried a staff in 
his hand on which he leaned heavily. Sir Satyrane and 
Una drew up their steeds when they came to him, and 
Una asked him eagerly if he had heard any news of a 
knight who bore upon his shield and breast the sign of a 
scarlet cross. 

“Alas! my dear lady, I have,” said the pilgrim. 

6 6 But it is sad news, and will, I fear, give you much pain. 
I saw that knight this very day. He was fighting against 
a pagan knight. Dreadful it was to see them and to hear 
the clash of arms, and still more dreadful w r hen I saw the 
pagan knight triumph over the Christian soldier. My 
heart bled for grief and sorrow when I saw the brave Red 
Cross Knight fall dead upon the ground.” 

115 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Una, when she heard this dreadful news, fell from her 
steed in a faint. Sir Satyrane was almost as grieved as she 
was, and he did his best to restore her to consciousness. 
And when at last Una had recovered a little he turned 
to the pilgrim and asked him where the knight had gone 
who had slain the Red Cross Knight. 

4 4 He is not far away,” said the old man. 44 1 lfeft him 
at that fountain, which you may see in the distance, 
washing the blood from his armour. Doubtless you will 
find him there if you do but hasten.” 

Sir Satyrane did not wait to hear more. Mounting 
his horse, he rode towards the fountain, determined to kill 
the man who had brought such grief to his dear lady. 
Una followed more slowly. She was so overwhelmed with 
the sorrow that had come to her when she heard that her 
dear knight was dead that she hardly cared what happened 
to her now. 

But the old man, simple and guileless though he seemed 
to be, was really none other than Archimago, who, know- 
ing by his magic powers where Una and Sir Satyrane 
were to be found, had assumed the disguise of the pilgrim 
and had come forth to meet them. What he had told 
them about the Red Cross Knight was quite untrue, 
though it was true that there was a knight resting by the 
fountain. And that knight was Sans Loy, whom Una 
had so much cause to fear and dread. 

Sir Satyrane rode boldly up to Sans Loy and chal- 
lenged him to fight, and soon the two were engaged in a 
fierce battle. Una came up while they were in Rie midst 
of the struggle ; and when Sans Loy caught sight of her 
he suddenly left his adversary and rode towards her, full 
of delight at seeing her again. He meant to seize her 
116 


The Red Cross Knight 

and ride off with her, without troubling to finish his battle 
with Sir Satyrane. 

But Satyrane rode after him and attacked him with 
such fury that in self-defence he was obliged to turn back 
and resume the fight. And while the two knights were 
still struggling fiercely together Una, who was half sense- 
less with terror at the sight of Sans Loy, fled away. She 
was too frightened to stay and watch the end of the battle ; 
and when Archimago saw her riding off he was delighted. 
This was just what he had hoped might happen, and, 
leaving Sir Satyrane and Sans Loy still fighting, he 
hurried after her. 

In terror and despair Una urged her steed along, her 
heart wellnigh breaking with grief. Now that the Red 
Cross Knight was dead it seemed to her that there was no 
hope left in all the world. Her one thought was to get 
away somewhere where she might be safe from Sans Loy 
and give herself over to her sorrow and despair. 

But as she fled along she met the little dwarf carrying 
his master’s armour. Una was at first overcome at the 
sight of this armour, which seemed to her confirmation of 
the pilgrim’s words, and she sank on the ground, sobbing 
piteously. 

The dwarf was full of sorrow at having to tell her the 
sad news of the Red Cross Knight’s defeat and imprison- 
ment. He did his best to soothe his lady, and when she 
was a little calmer he told her the whole story from the 
time when Archimago had made the young knight believe 
that she was untrue to him until the moment when 
Orgoglio had come upon him in his weakness and made 
him prisoner. 

Una’s tender heart .was pierced with sorrow to hear of 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

her dear knight’s peril and distress. But she was over- 
joyed to find that he was not dead after all, and that the 
pilgrim’s tale was false. She saw through all Archimago’s 
treachery now. She was filled with happiness to think 
that the Red Cross Knight still loved her, and that he had 
not after all been unworthy of his knightly quest. And 
when she had dried her tears she rose up and set out with 
the dwarf, determined to find the Red Cross Knight, alive 
or dead. 

At last, after many weary days of travelling, Una met 
a noble knight, accompanied by his squire. This knight 
was the bravest and strongest of all the knights of the 
Fairy Queen. He was indeed none other than Prince 
Arthur himself. He was arrayed in the most beautiful 
armour, ornamented with precious stones, which shone 
and sparkled and glittered in the sunlight. His sword 
was of burnished steel, so keen and powerful that it could 
pierce any mortal armour, and its hilt was richly encrusted 
with gems. His helmet was of gold, and his shield was 
made of one huge diamond cut out of solid rock. So 
bright was this shield that the Prince would never show it 
to mortal eye, for it would instantly kill whoever looked 
upon it. He always kept it closely covered, except when 
he was fighting against some dreadful dragon or some 
other monster whom he could not subdue by the might of 
his arm alone. The dazzling light of this shield turned all 
who saw it into stone. Nothing that was not real and 
true could stand against it. Men were turned to stone, 
stones were turned to dust, and dust was turned to nothing 
at all. 

When this wonderful knight saw Una, and perceived 
how sad and lovely she was, he drew rein and spoke to her. 

118 


The Red Cross Knight 

And when he had heard of all that had befallen her he was 
filled with indignation, and he vowed to accompany Una 
to the castle of Giant Orgoglio and restore the Red Cross 
Knight to liberty if he were still alive. 

“ Fear not, lady!” he cried. “You have indeed 
cause to be sad and sorrowful, but take comfort. Until 
I have set your brave knight free I will never forsake you.” 

So, guided by the dwarf, Una and Prince Arthur set 
out for the castle of Giant Orgoglio. They soon reached 
it, and then, bidding Una wait for his return, the knight 
and his squire rode boldly up to the castle gates. The 
gates were shut fast, and nobody answered the Prince 
when he called for someone to come and open to him. At 
last the squire took up a bugle which hung by his side and 
raised it to his lips. This bugle had marvellous powers. 
Its sound could be heard for miles around, and no gate 
or door could stand fast against it. When the squire 
blew a piercing blast upon it every door and gate of the 
giant’s castle flew open, while the walls were shaken to 
their foundations at the terrible noise. 

Dismayed at the sound, Orgoglio came rushing forth 
to see who dared to brave his dreaded power. After him 
came Duessa, arrayed in her richest robes and riding upon 
a horrible dragon which the giant had given to her for a 
steed. 

When the giant saw Prince Arthur he rushed out to 
kill him w T ith uplifted club. But the prince sprang out 
of his way, and then, seizing his opportunity, attacked 
Orgoglio so fiercely that the giant was badly wounded at 
the outset and began to roar with pain. Duessa was 
dismayed when she saw that the giant was being worsted, 
and spurring on her dragon she hurried to his aid. 

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Then began a terrible conflict between the giant and 
Duessa, with her magic arts and her dragon on the one 
side, and Prince Arthur and his squire on the other. It 
seemed at one time as though the knight and his squire 
had no chance against such unequal odds, but at last 
Prince Arthur drew the cover off his shield and held it up 
before Orgoglio. With a scream the giant fell down 
before the blazing light of the shield, and the knight was 
easily able to kill him. The dragon surrendered at once 
when he saw the blazing shield, and Duessa, seeing that all 
was lost, threw away the golden crown she wore and would 
have made her escape had not the young squire run after 
her and brought her back to his royal master. 

When Una saw that her champion had conquered she 
hastened towards him, praising him and thanking him 
again and again. Then the Prince, leaving Duessa and 
Una to the charge of his squire, went into the castle and 
began to search for the Red Cross Knight. 

It seemed as though the castle was quite deserted, for 
not a single creature was to be seen. Prince Arthur called 
loudly, but no one answered his call, and though he went 
from room to room he found every one of them empty. 
At last, just as he was wondering what he should do next, 
he met an old, old man, the father of the dead giant and 
keeper of the castle. Prince Arthur asked him where all 
the people had gone, but the old man answered that he 
did not know. Then the Prince asked him where the 
Red Cross Knight was, but once again the old man replied 
that he could not tell. Then the Prince asked the way to 
the dungeons, but yet again the old man said he could 
not tell. And then, seeing that it was no use to question 
him any further, the Prince took the keys which the old 
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The Red Cross Knight 

man carried and searched the castle through and 
through. 

And at last, lying in a horrible dungeon far from the 
light of day, feeble and wasted with sickness and starva- 
tion, the Prince found the Red Cross Knight. He was 
too feeble and ill to lift himself from the ground, for he 
had been lying for three months in the midst of the most 
horrible dirt and smells, with barely enough food to keep 
him alive. And never once during all that long time had 
one ray of light fallen upon his eyes. But the Prince took 
him tenderly in his arms and bore him out of the castle 
into the daylight again. 

The knight was a piteous sight to look upon ; he was 
so feeble and wasted and shrunken. Una ran towards him 
with a cry of joy, but she stopped aghast when she saw how 
weak and ill he was. Then her love and pity overwhelmed 
her, and kneeling down beside him as the Prince laid him 
gently down upon the ground, she wept over him, calling 
him by all the tender, loving words she could think of. 

44 What shall we do with this woman? ” said the 
Prince, pointing to Duessa. 44 She it is, with the wicked 
Archimago, who has been the cause of all your woe. She 
is in your power to live or die.” 

44 To let her die would be a dishonourable thing to do,” 
said Una, 44 seeing that she is a woman. It would be 
shame to avenge oneself upon so weak an enemy. Strip 
her of her costly robes and let her go where she will. It 
is her scarlet gown alone that gives her the power to look 
so young and beautiful. Despoil her of her magic gar- 
ment, and men will see her for the false, wicked woman 
that she is.” 

Prince Arthur did as Una told him. He took from 


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Duessa her rich scarlet gown, and when he had taken it 
off he saw that Una had spoken truly. It was the 
garment alone that had made Duessa appear beautiful. 
Now that she was dressed in it no longer, everyone could 
see how old and ugly and hateful the wicked woman 
really was. 

Then they let her go, and Duessa, knowing that her 
power of doing evil was over, fled away into the desert. 
There she hid herself in caves and rocks, never more daring 
to show herself openly now that her shame and falsehood 
could be seen by all the world. 

After this Una and the two knights rested in the 
giant’s castle for some time, until at last the Red Cross 
Knight began to grow strong and well again. Then they 
parted company. Prince Arthur and his squire rode away 
in search of fresh adventures, while Una and the Red Cross 
Knight set out once more to fulfil the quest upon which 
they had ridden forth from the Fairy Queen’s court so 
many months ago. 

Una would not 'hurry on too quickly, nor would she let 
the Red Cross Knight be rash in undertaking new adven- 
tures, for he was still so w r eak and grew so soon wearied 
that she knew he would stand little chance against any 
strong foe. So they went forward by easy stages, resting 
often and talking happily together, for they had many 
things to say to each other now that they were at last 
together again. 

One day, as they were journeying, they saw a knight 
galloping fast towards them. It seemed as though he were 
flying from some dreadful thing, for ever and anon as he 
rode he turned his head to glance behind him ; and when 
he drew nearer they could see that his face was pale with 
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The Red Cross Knight 

terror. His head was bare, and round his neck hung a 
hempen rope. 

The Red Cross Knight spurred forward to meet him. 

44 Sir Knight,” he cried, 44 who has used you so, and 
from whom do you flee so fast? Never before have I seen 
a knight arrayed in such an unseemly manner.’ ’ 

The strange knight seemed too frightened to answer ; 
but after the Red Cross Knight had spoken to him several 
times he recovered himself a little, and said in trembling 
tones : 

44 For God’s sake do not stop me! He is coming 
after me! ” 

44 Who is coming after you? ” asked the Red Cross 
Knight. 

The stranger did not answer, but made as though to 
ride on again. The Red Cross Knight put out his hand 
and caught his horse by the bridle, assuring the frightened 
man that no one was in sight. 

44 Am I really safe, then? ” said the trembling rider, 
and when at last Una and the Red Cross Knight had suc- 
ceeded in convincing him that no one was following him, 
he began to tell them his story. 

44 1 was riding with a companion, a knight called Sir 
Terwin,” he said. 44 He was a man skilful at all feats of 
arms and bold in battle ; but in his love he was unfortun- 
ate, for he had given his heart to a lady who did not return 
his love. As we rode together we met a man who called 
himself Despair. He asked us why we seemed so sad, 
and when we had told him of Sir Terwin’s sorrow he 
persuaded us that it was no use to go on living any longer, 
for there was nothing in the world that was worth living 
for. To my friend he gave a knife, to me this rope ; and 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

so well did he talk, and so persuasive was he that, God 
forgive us, we made up our minds to do as he desired and 
end our lives. Sir Terwin plunged the knife into his 
heart and fell down dead, but I, dismayed at the sight, 
suddenly realised what a terrible thing I was about to do, 
and, riding fast away, I fled from that dreadful man.” 

4 4 How can idle speech persuade a man to take his own 
life? ” asked the Red Cross Knight. Trusting in his own 
strength, with life stretching out so fair and beautiful 
before him now that he was restored to liberty and had 
his lady at his side, he was inclined to despise the weakness 
of the other man. 

44 Indeed it can do so,” answered the stranger knight, 
44 as I have woeful cause to know. I pray that you may 
never meet with that dreadful man, Despair.” 

44 Truly,” cried the Red Cross Knight, 44 1 shall never 
rest until I have met with him, for it is not meet that 
the miscreant should be allowed to go on living to tempt 
brave knights with such guileful words. I pray you, Sir 
Knight, whoever you be, to ride with me to the place 
where you met with this wicked man that I may put an 
end to his evil life.” 

44 My name is Trevisan,” saM the stranger. 44 1 will 
ride back with you since you desire it, though sorely 
against my will. I will show you the cave in which 
Despair dwells, but, having once done that, I will not 
abide a moment longer. No — not for gold, nor any other 
thing that you can give me ! I would rather die than meet 
him face to face again ! ” 

So Trevisan turned back and went with Una and the 
Red Cross Knight to the cave where Despair lived. When 
they came in sight of the dismal place, a hollow cave 

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The Red Cross Knight 

underneath a dark and frowning cliff, Sir Trevisan would 
have ridden away again ; but the Red Cross Knight spoke 
to him reassuringly, telling him that there was nothing to 
be frightened of, and at length he managed to persuade 
the knight to stay with him. 

They entered the cave together. It was a dismal sight 
they saw when their eyes had grown used to the gloom 
of the place. There on the ground sat a miserable-looking 
man, clothed in dirt and rags, with long unkempt hair 
hanging about his gaunt and haggard face. He seemed 
utterly wretched and miserable ; and at his feet lay the 
dead body of Sir Terwin, just as Sir Trevisan had said. 

When he saw this miserable sight the Red Cross 
Knight was moved with indignation. 

44 Wretched man,” he cried, 44 it is you who are the 
cause of this brave knight’s death. Justice, therefore, 
demands that you should pay the price of his blood with 
your own.” 

44 Who are you to speak so boldly? ” asked Despair, 
lifting his haggard eyes to the young knight’s face. 44 Does 
not justice teach that he should die who does not deserve 
to live? It was this man’s conscience that drove him to 
his death, not I. And he was wretched and miserable 
upon earth, so why should he not die? Would you be- 
grudge him rest in death who had so little rest or ease 
in life? ” 

The Red Cross Knight stood silent, half perplexed 
at these arguments, and Despair, seeing that he had gained 
a point, suddenly attacked the knight directly. 

44 Why should you wish to live yourself?” he said. 
44 You have committed many sins already, and the longer 
you live the more will you commit. Is it worth while 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

to go on living? Lie down and take your rest in death. 
You will be far happier than if you cling to life with all 
its ills. Think of the terrible imprisonment from which 
you have just been released. Who knows what horrible 
fate may not be in store for you — what trials and battles, 
sorrows and partings, griefs and imprisonments, all of 
which you will escape if you will but take my advice and 
die. And then Despair put before the knight daggers and 
spears and ropes and poisons, and all the instruments by 
which he might end his life if he wished to do so. 

The Red Cross Knight stood in terrible doubt and 
perplexity. Surely it could not be right to take his own 
life? Yet Despair had made it seem that it was not right 
for him to go on living! The young knight was still 
weak and ill from his long imprisonment, and it appeared 
to his weary mind that perhaps Despair was right after 
all. It would be better to end his life now before he 
committed any further sin, and, taking up a dagger which 
Despair had put into his hand, he was just about to plunge 
it into his heart when Una saw what he was going to do. 

With a cry of horror she sprang forward and snatched 
the dagger from his hand. 

“Faint-hearted knight!” she cried reproachfully. 
“ What is this that you would do? Is this the battle you 
have promised to fight against the dragon that lays waste 
my father’s lands ; is this to be the end of all your knightly 
quests? Come away! Come away at once from this 
deceitful man. What need have you to despair, who have 
been rescued from so many dangers to fight against the 
wrong and wickedness that is in the world ! Arise, Sir 
Knight, and leave this dreadful place.” 

Then, full of shame at the dreadful deed he had con- 
126 


The Red Cross Knight 

templated doing, the knight arose and suffered Una to 
lead him away from the cave of Despair. 

From this adventure Una saw that her knight was not 
yet sufficiently recovered from his sickness to wage war 
against the monster of evil that laid waste her father’s 
lands. So she took him to a beautiful house not far off, 
where friends of her own lived. This house was called 
the House of Holiness. It was governed by a lady who 
was very wise and good, who had three lovely daughters 
whose names meant faith, hope and charity. Here Una 
and the Red Cross Knight rested for a while, and the three 
lovely daughters of the house tended and waited upon 
the knight and taught him all they could of faith and hope 
and love until he was healed in body and mind. Then he 
and Una said good-bye to the gracious lady and her daugh- 
ters and left the House of Holiness, and once more set 
out upon their journey towards the kingdom of Una’s 
father. 

And now at last, after all their toil and wanderings, 
the Red Cross Knight came to the adventure upon which 
he had set out. 

“ See,” cried Una. “ Yonder is the brazen tower in 
which my dear parents are shut up. And yonder, too, is 
the dragon himself.” And, looking in the direction in 
which she was pointing, the Red Cross Knight saw the 
most horrible monster he had come across yet. 

The dragon lay stretched out on the side of the hill. 
When it saw the silver armour of the Red Cross Knight 
shining in the sunshine it roused itself and gave a terrible 
roar which made the ground shake for miles around. Then, 
slowly uncoiling its great length, it came towards him. 

The Red Cross Knight told Una to go away to a little 

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distance where she .would be safe. And Una, knowing 
that he would not want to be hampered now by fears for 
her safety, obeyed him and rode to the top of a little hill 
close by, from which she might watch the battle without 
danger. 

The dragon was indeed a dreadful-looking creature. 
His body was covered with glistening scales like a thick 
coat of armour. He had two great wings with which he 
could fly, and his tail was almost three furlongs in length, 
with two terrible stings at the end. His claws were sharp 
and strong, and out of his mouth came clouds of smoke 
and flames of fire. Many brave knights had fought against 
him and striven to overcome him, but he had vanquished 
every one ; and now there were few who dared to fight 
him, so sure and certain seemed the death that awaited 
the man who challenged the monster to battle. 

Spear in hand, the Red Cross Knight awaited the 
dragon’s coming. The young knight was brave and stead- 
fast in his determination to overthrow the monster or die 
in the attempt. Remembering the lessons he had learnt 
in the House of Holiness, he did not trust in his own 
strength, but in the might of the scarlet cross he bore upon 
his breast and shield which had brought him safely through 
so many great adventures. At the first rush the dragon 
bore him and his steed to the ground, but the knight was 
quickly on his feet again ; and then, with shield and sword 
and spear, he fought long and bravely against the monster. 

All day long they struggled together, but when at last 
night fell it seemed as though the dragon had gained the 
victory. The Red Cross Knight was driven from the 
field, and he seemed so worn and tired and exhausted that 
Una feared he would not be able to renew the conflict 
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The Red Cross Knight 

when daylight came again. But it happened that close 
by there ran a little stream which possessed the power 
of restoring to life and health any that bathed in it. The 
Red Cross Knight, driven backwards by the dragon’s last 
fiery onslaught, stumbled and fell into this stream. All 
night long he lay there, half covered by the healing water ; 
and when the night had gone and the sun rose up in the 
morning he rose up too, so fresh and strong and eager for 
the fray that the dragon was dismayed, thinking that it 
must be some new knight who had come to do battle 
against him. 

Once more the battle raged, and this time it seemed 
as though the Red Cross Knight had gained greater 
strength and skill, for he wounded his enemy several times 
so severely that the dragon roared aloud in pain and 
wrath. But at last, in his fury, just as the day was ending, 
the monster poured out of his mouth a stream of smoke 
and fire and poison which so overcame the knight that he 
was obliged to retreat before his enemy. 

He tottered away, reeling before the poisonous breath 
of the dragon, and unable to stand upright because of the 
wounds he had received and his great fatigue, he fell on 
the ground. But fortunately he fell under a tree from 
which oozed a little stream of healing balm ; and as this 
balm touched the knight’s wounds it healed them up and 
made him as strong and well again as ever he was. 

The dragon dared not touch the knight while he lay 
in the shade of this wonderful tree, for no evil thing might 
come beneath its branches ; so for another night the Red 
Cross Knight slept in safety, and when the morning came 
he was well enough to go out to meet the dragon once 
more. And this time the fight did not last long. For as 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

the dragon came rushing towards the brave knight, with 
his mouth wide open to swallow him, the knight managed 
to inflict a fatal wound in the dragon’s mouth, his one 
vulnerable spot. 

With a roar that shook the earth for miles around and 
made even the knight tremble, the dragon fell down upon 
the ground. There he lay like a huge fallen mountain, 
dead at last. The Red Cross Knight had gained the 
victory ; Una’s enemy was defeated ; the quest of the Fairy 
Queen had been performed. 

All through these three terrible days Una had been 
watching the battle, not daring to stir from the little hill 
to which she had fled. Many and many a time had she 
trembled in terror for the safety of her brave champion, 
and all the while she had not ceased to pray that his arm 
might be strengthened and that he might gain the victory. 
And now her prayers were granted, for the dragon was 
dead, and her dear knight was safe and all unharmed. 

Full of joy, Una ran towards him, praising God for the 
victory and thanking the Red Cross Knight again and 
again for all that he had done. And as she clung to him, 
scarcely daring to believe that all her sorrows were over, 
a sound of joyful trumpets heralded the approach of the 
king and queen, her father and mother. The watchman 
on the brazen tower had seen the fall of the dragon and 
had run in haste to tell the king and queen of their deliver- 
ance ; and now they had come forth from their prison to 
greet their deliverer, and to rejoice over the return of 
their dearly loved child. 

The Red Cross Knight was brought in great triumph 
to the palace, and great feasts and rejoicings took place 
because of the death of the dragon, and because the 

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The Red Cross Knight 

Princess Una was to be betrothed to the knight who had 
fought so bravely for her sake. They could not be mar- 
ried as yet, for the Red Cross Knight had vowed to serve 
the Fairy Queen for six years as a maiden knight; and 
until those years were over and his vow fulfilled he might 
not take a wife. But there was nothing to hinder their 
betrothal, and one day the king made a great and solemn 
feast, and Una, dressed in purest white, was brought into 
the great hall of the palace to be affianced to the Red 
Cross Knight. 

Just before the betrothal took place Duessa and 
Archimago made one last effort to injure the two whom 
they so hated. A messenger came running in great haste 
to the king where he sat on his throne, and handed him 
a letter. The letter said that Fidessa, the daughter of 
the great Emperor of the West, bade the king beware how 
he betrothed his fair daughter to the young knight who 
had killed the dragon, for the knight was already married 
to Fidessa herself. 

The king’s face grew very grave as he read this letter. 
He called the Red Cross Knight to his side and asked him 
if this were true. The Red Cross Knight was ashamed 
to tell how he had allowed himself to be deceived by 
Duessa, but yet he scorned to hide his shame, and standing 
up boldly and bravely in front of all, he told his story 
frankly. 

Una looked hard at the messenger as the knight was 
speaking, and her pure eyes were able to pierce his 
disguise. 

“It is Archimago, himself, the cause of so much of 
our trouble,” she cried. “ Uncloak him, and see if I 
speak not true ! ’ ’ 


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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

When he heard these words the messenger turned to 
fly, but the king’s guards were too quick for him. They 
seized him and stripped his disguise from him ; and when 
he stood up unconcealed before them all they saw that 
it was indeed the wicked Archimago. 

The king was very angry at the way the magician had 
tried to injure the brave young knight, and he commanded 
that the wicked old man should be chained and cast into 
a deep dungeon, so that he might not escape to do more 
evil in the world ; and in spite of his struggles Archimago 
was carried away and cast into prison. 

Then the Red Cross Knight was betrothed to Una, 
and for a while he rested at the king’s palace, happy in 
the presence of his dear lady. But such joy could not 
last for ever. He was young and strong, and he had his 
vow to fulfil, and both he and Una knew that no lasting 
happiness could come from neglect of duty. And so at 
last the day came when the lovers had to say good-bye — 
the Red Cross Knight to ride back to the court of Queen 
Gloriana to seek more knightly quests, Una to remain in 
her father’s palace, to pray for the safe return of her 
beloved knight. 

But though the six years might seem long to the 
lovers, yet they knew that the time would pass at length. 
Patience and constancy would be at last rewarded, and 
the Red Cross Knight, with fresh honour and glory added 
to the lustre of his name, would come riding back one day 
to claim his lady’s hand in marriage. And then they 
would live together in happiness all through the rest of 
their earthly lives. 


132 


Lord Ullin’s Daughter 

I T was a wild, stormy evening in the Highlands ot‘ 
Scotland. On the shore of Lochgyle a Highland chief- 
tain, with a lady on his arm, was speaking urgently 
to a sturdy boatman, who stood gazing at the raging 
waters of the loch with a doubtful frown on his brow. 

“I’ll give you a silver pound if ye will but row us 
o’er the ferry,” cried the chieftain impatiently. 44 Only 
do not tarry. We must cross the water instantly — 
instantly, I tell you ! ” 

The boatman turned a suspicious face towards his 
would-be passengers. 

44 Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle this night? ” 
he asked distrustfully. But the Highland lord was too 
anxious and impatient to be safe over the ferry to heed 
the suspicion in his tone. 

4 4 1 am the chief of Ulva’s Isle, and this is Lord 
Ullin’s daughter,” he answered. Then, seeing that the 
boatman still hesitated, he determined to tell him every- 
thing and throw himself upon the man’s mercy. 44 For 
three days have we fled before her father’s men. His 
horsemen ride hard behind us — should they discover us, 
my blood would stain the heather. Then who would 
cheer my bonny bride? ” he added tenderly, looking 
down at the muffled figure that clung to his arm. 

Lord Ullin was well known through all the country- 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

side. He was a stern, hard man, and he bore a hatred 
that almost amounted to madness against the Chief of 
Ulva for daring to aspire to the hand of his daughter. 
He had sworn that his child should never marry the 
Highland chief, and when, under cover of darkness, she 
had slipped out of the castle three days before, his rage 
and fury knew no bounds. Calling his horsemen 
together, he put himself at the head of them, announcing 
his determination of scouring the country until he had 
overtaken the runaway pair and slain the lord of Ulva. 

The fisherman was touched at the plight of the young 
couple. He spoke with a sudden impulsiveness quite 
different from his former suspicious manner. 

“ I’ll go, my chief; I’m ready,” he said. “ I would 
not brave the dangers of the loch this night for all the 
silver you could offer me ; but for the sake of your win- 
some lady I will e’en row you over the ferry, though I 
misdoubt me no sane man would put to sea in such a 
storm as this.” 

As he spoke he began to carry the oars to the boat, 
and with the chieftain’s help he pushed the small craft 
down to the edge of the shore. 

By this time the storm had increased until there was 
a veritable tempest raging. It had grown so dark that 
they could scarcely see each other’s faces, and the waves 
dashed on the shore with a noise that almost deafened 
them. But as the boatman busied himself with the pre- 
parations for the voyage the two who were waiting could 
hear above the roaring of the wind and the raging of 
the water a sound of trampling in the glen behind them. 
The lady shivered with fear as she heard it. 

“ Oh, haste, haste ! ” she cried imploringly. “ It is 

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Lord Ullin's Daughter 

my father ! I would rather face the raging of the skies 
than have his vengeance overtake us now! ” 

For all answer the boatman pushed the little craft 
into the water, and the chieftain took his bride in his 
arms and sprang aboard with her. The man pushed off, 
and then springing into the boat, he set himself to the 
task of steering the little storm-tossed craft across the 
waters of the loch. 

They had scarcely got out of reach of the shore when 
the tempest descended upon them with redoubled fury. 
Bravely the sturdy Highlander bent to his oars, but in 
spite of all his efforts he could make no headway. Wave 
after wave dashed over them, drenching them with spray, 
until one, mightier than all the others, lifted up the little 
boat as though it had been a cockleshell and capsized it on 
the instant. 

When Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore all his 
wrath was changed to wailing and dismay, for he saw 
the boat containing his daughter overwhelmed in the rush 
of waters. 

He stretched out his hands in impotent distress. 

<e Come back, come back! ” he cried in grief. “I’ll 
forgive your lover — I will forgive everything, only come 
back, come back! My daughter, oh, my daughter! ” 

But his grief was all in vain. The wild waves lashed 
the shore, preventing return or aid ; the little boat was 
swept beneath the waves, and Lord Ullin, helpless in his 
anguish, saw his child disappear below the dark waters of 
the loch, clasped in her lover’s arms. 

It was a dreadful punishment to the father for his 
hardness and cruelty to his only child. Much as he dis- 
liked him, he would rather have seen her married to the 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Chieftain of Ulva than drowned before his very eyes. 
But it was too late to tell her so. 

And in the Highlands of Scotland the story is still 
told of that fatal night on the shore of Lochgyle — and of 
how Lord Ullin, who had left his home swearing to have 
the blood of the man who had taken his daughter, returned 
to it in heartbroken grief, bowed down with remorse and 
sorrow. 


136 


The Friar of Orders Grey 

A FRIAR of Orders Grey was once walking along 
the high road telling his beads. He had had a 
very sad life, and now, although he was still 
young, he had determined to enter a monastery and 
devote his life to good works, since the world held no fur- 
ther joy for him. He had not yet completed his year of 
probation ; but he had made up his mind that once that 
was past he would take the vows of the Order and pass 
into the cloister for ever. 

It was a wet, dreary day. The rain fell in a cold 
drizzle, and the wind blew keenly through the hawthorn 
trees. It was hardly the day for travellers to be abroad ; 
but as he walked along the wet road the young Friar saw 
a pilgrim coming towards him. As he drew nearer he saw 
that the traveller was a lady, young and beautiful. She? 
was dressed in the mournful weeds worn by those who go 
on pilgrimages, and in her hand she carried the heavy 
pilgrim’s staff. The young Friar’s heart gave a sudden 
leap as he caught sight of her face. He had seen this 
lady before. Indeed, it was for her sake that he had 
determined to leave the world and enter the cloister. 

When the traveller saw the Friar of Orders Grey she 
paused and rested on her staff. 

“ Christ save thee, reverend Friar,” she said in saluta- 
tion as the young man drew near. “ I pray you have pity 
137 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

upon a weary pilgrim and tell me if my true love has ever 
worshipped at yonder holy shrine of yours? ” 

“Nay, lady,” said the Friar, endeavouring to dis- 
guise his voice, for he did not wish the lady to recognise 
him yet. 44 Nay, how should I know your true love from 
all the other men who have knelt and worshipped at the 
shrine? ” 

4 4 Oh, you may know him by his staff and his sandals 
and his pilgrim’s dress, and also by his face and mien. 
He has such blue eyes you could scarce fail to remark 
them, and his hair is flaxen in its fairness,” said the lady 
earnestly. “Indeed, Sir Friar, you could not mistake 
my love, for he is the handsomest man you would see 
in many a day.” 

The Friar drew his hood more closely about his face. 

“ Lady,” he said gently, “ I have seen him, but he 
is dead and gone. Within yonder holy cloister he 
languished long, lamenting always of a fair lady who had 
treated him cruelly; and in spite of all we could do for 
him he died at last. He is buried within our churchyard 
wall. Six young men bore him to his grave, and many a 
tear bedewed the green turf which we laid over his body.” 

The lady gave a cry of grief and buried her face in 
her hands. 

“Oh, art thou dead, gentle youth? And hast thou 
died for me? ” she cried in anguish. 44 Oh, cruel that I 
was to treat thee so proudly and coldly ! When I had 
sent him away I learnt at last how much I loved him, 
and I set forth upon this pilgrimage to find him and beg 
him to forgive me. But now it is too late — too late ! ” 
And she burst into a storm of bitter weeping. 

44 Weep not, lady, weep not ! ” said the Friar reprov- 

138 


The Friar of Orders Grey 

ingly. “Sorrow and tears are all in vain. You must 
seek for comfort from above and not give way to this 
useless grief.” 

“ Ah, do not reprove my sorrow,” sobbed the lady. 
“ I have lost the sweetest youth that ever won lady’s 
love ; and shall I not weep and lament, when it was my 
own cruelness that drove him to his death? Oh, my 
lover! For your loss I will evermore sigh and weep. I 
only wished to live for you before — now I only wish to 
die for you.” 

The Friar spoke again, still in the same reproving tone : 

“ Weep no more, lady, weep no more, 

Thy sorrow is in vain : 

For violets plucked the sweetest shower 
Will ne’er make grow again. 

“ Our joys as winged dreams do fly, 

Why then should sorrow last ? 

Since grief but aggravates thy loss 
Grieve not for what is past.” 

“ Ah, say not so, holy Friar,” said the lady. “ Since 
my true love died for me, surely it is meet that my tears 
should flow for him? Oh, will he never come again? 
Ah, no, he is dead and laid in his grave — woe is mine for 
ever ! ” 

Still the Friar endeavoured to console her. 

“ Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, 

Men were deceivers ever : 

One foot on sea and one on shore, 

To one thing constant never. 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“ Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, 

And left thee sad and heavy ; 

For men were ever fickle found, 

Since summer trees were leafy.” 

44 No, no! ” the lady cried passionately. 44 My love 
had the truest heart that ever lady could wish for. Never 
would he have been false to me ! And now he is dead. 
Farewell, farewell, thou much-loved youth ! Since thou 
hast died for me I’ll leave my home and be for ever a 
pilgrim upon earth. But first show me my true love’s 
grave that I may lay my weary limbs upon it, and kiss 
the green turf that wraps his body.” 

The Friar put out his hand to detain her. 

44 Stay, fair lady, stay and rest awhile beneath this 
cloister wall,” he said persuasively. 44 See how the^ 
drizzly rain is falling, and feel how cold the wind blows 
through these hawthorn trees. Stay awhile and rest until 
the weather is fairer.” 

44 No rain that falls on me can wash my fault away,” 
the lady said. 44 Stay me not, I pray.” 

44 Yet stay, fair lady,” said the Friar again, and then, 
unable to contain himself any longer he flung back his 
concealing hood. 

44 Dry those tears,” he cried tenderly. 44 See, it is 
I — thine own true love, concealed beneath this gown of 
grey. Forced by my grief, I sought refuge within these 
holy walls, thinking to end my days in prayer and fasting. 
But — thanks be to God — my year of grace is not yet over. 
I may still return to the world if I wish it. And, oh, 
could I but hope to win thy love, how joyfully would I 
cast away these weeds! ” 

Overcome with joy and amazement, the lady could 
140 


The Friar of Orders Grey 

not speak at first. But when she saw that it was indeed 
her own true love who stood before her she held out her 
arms to him with a cry of rapture and relief. 

44 Now farewell, grief, and welcome, joy! ” she said 
as she found herself clasped in the young man’s arms. 
44 1 have found thee again, my own true love. Never 
more will we be parted until death comes to claim us for 
his own.” 


141 


The History of John Gilpin 

J OHN GILPIN was a citizen of famous London town. 
He was a linendraper of Cheapside, and was very well 
known and respected amongst the inhabitants of the 
neighbourhood. Besides being a linendraper, he was also 
a Captain in the Volunteers, the trained bands, as they 
were called in those days ; and the good gentleman thought 
himself a very important person indeed. 

John Gilpin had a wife who took almost as much pride 
in her worthy husband as John Gilpin did himself. She 
was industrious and capable and thrifty, and was not for 
ever wishing to be out and about, as some frivolous ladies 
in the neighbourhood were always wanting to do. Indeed, 
although the Gilpins had been married for nearly twenty 
years, they had never yet had a holiday; and at last it 
seemed to Mistress Gilpin that the time had really come 
to take one. 

It was on the day before the twentieth anniversary of 
their wedding that Mistress Gilpin came to her husband 
with her proposal. 

“ My dear,” she said, “ although we have been wedded 
these twice ten tedious years, we have never yet seen a 
holiday. Now to-morrow is our wedding-day, and I 
propose, as a little outing to celebrate the occasion, that 
we should repair to the Bell at Edmonton in a chaise and 
pair. I hear that they give a very good dinner at the 
142 


The History of John Gilpin 

Bell. We’ll invite my sister and my sister’s child to go 
with us, and that with myself and our three children will 
just fill the chaise, so you must hire a horse and ride on 
horseback after us.” 

John Gilpin was a sensible man, and he always fell in 
with his wife’s proposals when they were at all practicable. 
Besides, he too was very much attracted by the prospect 
of a holiday, and he replied at once to her suggestion. 

“ My dearest dear,” he said gallantly, “ of all women- 
kind I do admire but one, and as you are she your com- 
mands shall be instantly obeyed. We’ll have the chaise 
and pair and drive out to the Bell at Edmonton, and as 
for a steed for me — why, I am sure our good friend the 
calender will lend me his horse, and that will save us 
the expense of hiring one.” 

“That’s well said,” answered Mistress Gilpin approv- 
ingly. “And since wine is so dear we’ll take our own 
with us. It’s bright and clear, and I’m sure it’s just as 
good as any we should get at the Bell.” 

John Gilpin kissed his wife affectionately. He was 
overjoyed to find that even when bent on pleasure she 
still kept her frugal mind. 

The morning came, and with it the chaise and pair, 
but Mistress Gilpin .would not allow it to be driven up 
to the door of her house for fear her neighbours should 
accuse her of pride in her fine carriage. So the driver 
was told to stay his horses three doors off, and there 
Mistress Gilpin and her three children, Mistress Gilpin’s 
sister, and Mistress Gilpin’s sister’s child got in, all pre- 
pared for adventure and brimming over with excitement 
at the pleasure in store. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, and the 
143 


My Book of Storks from the Poets 

chaise went rattling away over the stones of Cheapside. 
John Gilpin, standing at his horse’s side, seized fast its 
flowing mane and mounted in haste to ride after them ; 
but he soon came down again, for just as he reached the 
saddle he turned his head and saw three customers enter 
his shop. So down he came in a great hurry, for though 
he was grieved at the loss of time, yet he knew full well 
that the loss of pence would trouble him much more. 
The thought of those three customers would weigh on 
his mind all day and quite spoil his pleasure if he did 
not attend to them. 

4 4 If others come after I’m gone,” he thought to him- 
self, 44 it can’t be helped, and as I shall not see them 
it will not trouble me. But since I’m still here it would 
be grievous sin to let good custom go by.” And he 
hurried into the shop after the customers, hoping 
fervently that they would not be long about their 
business. 

But it was some time before all three of them were 
suited to their mind, and John Gilpin grew very 
impatient before at last they left the shop and set him 
free to start on his journey. He was just about to mount 
once more when Betty, the Gilpins’ maidservant, came 
flying out of the house in a great state of mind. 

44 Oh, sir, the wine is left behind,” she panted breath- 
lessly. 

Gilpin gave an exclamation of dismay. 

44 Good lack ! ” he said ; then, as he thought how dis- 
tressed his wife would be at her carelessness, and how 
much the landlord of the Bell would charge if they 
bought a bottle of wine there, he turned to Betty with 
an air of determination. 


144 


The History of John Gilpin 

44 Bring it here to me,” he said, 44 and likewise the 
stout leathern belt I wear when I do exercise.” 

Mistress Gilpin had found two stone bottles in which 
to put the wine. Each bottle had a curling ear, and 
when Betty returned with her master’s belt Gilpin drew 
it carefully through the ears of the bottles and then 
buckled it round his waist, adjusting it skilfully with a 
bottle at each side in order to make the weight even. 
Then, lest his neighbours should see the bottles and be 
shocked to see him carrying them, he threw a long red 
cloak, well-brushed and neat, over his shoulders, which 
quite hid the bottles of wine. Then once more he 
mounted his steed, and urged his horse slowly over the 
cobbled street, riding very carefully and cautiously. 

When they had passed out of Cheapside the cobble- 
stones ended, and finding a smoother road beneath his 
well-shod feet, the horse began to trot, a manner of 
proceeding which John did not like at all. 

4 4 Fair and softly ! Fair and softly ! ” cried the good 
man. But he cried in vain ! The trot became a gallop 
soon in spite of rein and curb, and all the coaxing and 
persuasive words that Gilpin could think of. The road 
was smooth and the day was fine, and the horse was fresh 
and very tired of waiting about for Gilpin’s customers, 
and he didn’t see in the least why he should be required 
to go at a funeral pace when everything was so favourable 
for a good gallop. 

And now poor John was in a grievous state of mind. 
To tell the truth he was not much of a horseman — in 
fact, I doubt if he had ever been upon a horse’s back 
before. Riding was not quite such an easy business as 
he had imagined it would be, and it seemed to the poor 

K 145 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

little stout man as though his very last hour had come. 
Stooping down, as he needs must who cannot sit upright, 
he grasped his horse’s mane with both his hands, and 
clung on with all his strength and might. 

His horse, who had never in his life been handled in 
such a strange manner, wondered more and more what- 
ever sort of thing he had got upon his back. He was 
nearly as frightened as his rider by this time, and when 
he felt his mane grasped so tightly and painfully he gave 
a great snort and began to run away in good earnest, 
which absolutely terrified poor John Gilpin. He had 
been frightened enough before, but words would not 
describe his feelings now. 

Away went Gilpin’s horse, and away went Gilpin on 
his back, through the streets of London town ! The wind 
caught his red cloak and blew it out behind him, like a 
streamer long and gay. Away flew his hat, away flew 
his wig, and at last, loop and button both failing, the 
cloak flew away too. And then everyone could see the 
heavy stone bottles dangling at his waist, and the people 
in the streets cried out as he flew past : 

“He carries weight! He rides a race! ’Tis for a 
thousand pounds! ” And they rushed along after the 
rider, shouting and cheering him on. Never before, 
surely, in the streets of London town had there been 
such an excitement over a little fat man on a horse ! 
Dogs barked, children screamed, up flew all the windows, 
ladies waved their pocket-handkerchiefs, and everybody 
called out as loudly as they could : “Well done! Well 
done!” thinking that Gilpin was riding some famous 
race. The turnpike men never troubled about their fees. 
They, too, thought that Gilpin rode a race, and as fast 

146 



“Away went Gilpin’s horse, and away went Gilpin on his back, through 
the streets of London town.” 







The History of John Gilpin 

as he drew near they flung their gates wide open to let 
the daring rider through. 

And now, as poor Gilpin went galloping on, his head 
bowed low on his horse’s neck, clinging with all his might 
to the runaway’s mane, the bottles, swinging backwards 
and forwards behind his back, suddenly struck one another 
and were shattered to bits. The wine went pouring down 
the horse’s sides into the road ; but still Gilpin seemed 
to carry weight, for the bottle-necks could still be seen 
dangling from his waist, and still the people shouted and 
cheered and flew to get out of the way, when all the while 
poor John Gilpin would have been thankful to anybody 
who would have stopped his runaway steed, and thus 
have brought his mad career to an end. 

He was out of London now, and riding through the 
little village of Islington, causing such excitement as the 
little place had never known before. On and on flew 
Gilpin’s horse, and on and on flew Gilpin, until they 
came to the Wash at Edmonton. The river ran across 
the road here, but little cared Gilpin’s horse for that! 
He dashed through the river, still at the same mad pace, 
throwing the water about on both sides of him like a 
trundling mop or a wild goose at play. 

Meanwhile the party in the chaise and pair had arrived 
at the “Bell Inn,” and, having ordered a good dinner, 
they repaired to the balcony to watch for John Gilpin. 
And when presently they saw him fly past in this mad 
manner, all wet and draggled from his passage through 
the river, and splashed and spattered from top to toe, 
they were dreadfully surprised and alarmed, and poor 
Mistress Gilpin grew very agitated and disturbed. She 
rose to her feet and leaned over the balcony railing. 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“ Stop, stop, John Gilpin, here’s the house!” she 
cried. 44 The dinner waits, and we are all so tired and 
hungry ! ’ ’ 

“ So am I,” said poor Gilpin; but for all his efforts 
he was unable to draw rein. His horse was not at all 
inclined to tarry there. His owner had a house at Ware, 
a little village a good ten miles away, and on he flew, 
and on flew Gilpin with him, until at last, to Gilpin’s 
great relief, they reached the house of the calender, and 
the runaway horse stood still. 

The calender saw his friend arriving, and amazed to 
see him in such a terrible state, he laid down his pipe 
and ran to the gate and accosted him excitedly. 

4 4 What news? What news? ” he cried. 44 Tell me 
your tidings at once ! Why have you come bareheaded 
like this? Why, indeed, have you come at all? ” 

Now Gilpin was a merry little man, and he loved a 
timely joke, and although he was so out of breath, and 
so tired and so dishevelled and so hungry, he could not 
resist the opportunity of making one. 

44 1 came because your horse would come,” he said. 
44 As for my hat and wig, doubtless they’ll soon be here 
— they are upon the road ! ” And he chuckled delightedly 
at his own wit. 

The calender was glad to find that nothing much was 
amiss, and that, in spite of his ruffled state, his little 
friend was in his usual cheerful frame of mind ; and he 
went into the house and reappeared with a hat and >vig, 
which he held out to Gilpin. 

44 My head is twice as big as yours,” he said laughingly, 
“therefore they needs must fit. But come along in and 
wash away some of your dust and dirt, and stop and eat 

148 


The History of John Gilpin 

with me, for you must be in a very hungry case, I should 
think.” 

But Gilpin shook his head. 

“ ’Tis my wedding-day,” he said. “ Just think what 
the world would say if my wife were to dine at Edmonton 
while I dined at Ware ! No, no, thank you all the same, 
but I must get back again,” and, taking up the reins, he 
said to the horse, “ you came here for your own pleasure 
— now you shall go back for mine.” 

Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast, for which 
poor Gilpin was to pay full dearly ! Even as he spoke 
an ass brayed loudly and clearly just the other side of 
a hedge. The horse gave a sudden snort — it might have 
been a lion’s roar from the fuss he made about it — reared 
up on his hind legs, and then galloped off with all his 
might, just as he had done before ! 

Away went Gilpin, and away once more went Gilpin’s 
hat and wig. This time he lost them sooner than before, 
for they were a size too big for him. And, once more 
stooping down and clinging tight to his horse’s neck, he 
began his wild race again, back towards London. 

When Mistress Gilpin had recovered from her first 
alarm at seeing her dear husband racing down into the 
country in such terrible peril, she had not wasted time in 
vain lamentations. She drew out half-a-crown, and turn- 
ing to the youth who had driven them to the “ Bell,” 
she said, holding the coin up before his eyes : 

“This shall be yours if you bring back my husband 
safe and well.” 

The youth, nothing loath at the prospect of earning 
an extra half-crown, mounted the fastest of the chaise 
horses, and rode off at once to try and overtake John 
149 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Gilpin. He thought at first that he was going to have 
an easier task than he had imagined, for soon after he 
had started whom should he meet but Gilpin galloping 
home again. Drawing his horse to the side of the road, 
the postboy leant out from his saddle and tried to snatch 
at Gilpin’s rein as he flew by. But he was not quite 
quick enough, and instead of stopping the horse as he 
had intended to do, he only frightened the terrified animal 
more, and made him run even faster than before, if that 
were possible ! 

Away went Gilpin, and away went the postboy at his 
heels, the postboy’s horse quite enjoying the fun, and 
glad not to have the heavy wheels of the chaise lumbering 
behind him. On and on they flew, and presently they 
passed a party of gentlemen on horseback, who, seeing 
Gilpin dashing along with the postboy at his heels, 
imagined that he was a thief, and rode hard in pursuit, 
shouting as they went : 

“Stop thief! Stop thief! A highwayman ! ” Not 
one of them was silent, and each and all that passed that 
way joined in the mad chase. 

And now again the turnpike gates flew open as Gilpin 
came in sight, the turnpike men thinking, as before, that 
he rode a race. And so he did ! And won it, too, for 
he got first to town, and at the very place where he had 
first mounted he got down at last ! 

But what his pursuers said when they caught him up 
and found that he wasn’t a highwayman after all, and 
what Mistress Gilpin said when she came home, and what 
the calender said when his horse was returned to him, all 
spent and exhausted and lame from the day’s adventures, 
I really cannot tell you, for history doesn’t say. And I’m 
150 


The History of John Gilpin 

afraid I can’t tell you, either, if John Gilpin ever went 
for another ride. I shouldn’t think that he ever ventured 
upon horseback again after his terrible experience, but 
if he did all I can say is — I only wish I had been there 
to see ! 


151 


The Prisoner of Chillon 


O N a rock in the Lake of Geneva there stands a 
gloomy castle, deep in the dungeons of which 
prisoners were chained in olden days. Many 
miserable creatures lived and died within its walls, some- 
times for no crime at all, but merely because they had 
had the misfortune to offend some great man. 

In one of the lowest dungeons of this castle one poor 
prisoner lived for many long years. He was one of six 
brothers, the sons of a brave father, all of whom had 
suffered for their faith. The father and one of his sons 
had perished at the stake, two more had been slain in 
battle, fighting for the cause which they believed to be 
right, and the three remaining sons had been cast into 
the gloomy dungeons of the Castle of Chillon. There, 
chained fast to great stone pillars, unable to move a single 
pace or to see each other’s faces, they were left to languish 
out their lives. 

At first they tried to be brave. They talked cheerfully 
to one another, each endeavouring to keep up the courage 
of his brothers. Although they could not see each other’s 
faces distinctly in the gloomy light, yet they still had 
their speech left to them. They told stories of the old 
days, sang merry songs, and made bold plans for their 
escape — though there was little hope of escape from 
gloomy Chillon. But after a while, as the weeks and 

152 


The Prisoner of Chillon 

months passed on, hope died within them, and the terrible 
confinement began to prey upon their health. 

The second brother was the first to give way. He had 
always been so strong and healthy, so used to living the 
free, outdoor life of the hunter, that the darkness and 
imprisonment told upon him sooner than on his brothers. 
For many months he lay in his chains weak and ill, but 
at last his captive spirit found release, and one morning 
his keepers found him dead. 

Then the youngest brother began to fail. He had 
been his father’s favourite child, because of the likeness 
he bore to his mother, who had died long before. The 
eldest brother tried hard to cheer the sick boy. He loved 
his youngest brother dearly, and it was terrible for him 
to know that he was dying day by day while he was unable 
to do anything to help. He was not even able to draw 
near enough to touch him with his chained hands. The 
sick lad was very patient through his illness ; perhaps he 
was glad to think that his imprisonment would soon be 
over. Of the two, the poor elder brother was the more 
to be pitied, for he had to sit by in helpless inactivity, 
listening to his brother’s breathing growing more and 
more feeble, knowing that the hour was rapidly approach- 
ing when he would be left alone in the darkness and 
solitude to drag out the weary days of his imprisonment 
as best he might. 

One day as the two brothers sat in silence, the one 
too feeble, the other too sad to talk, the breathing of the 
dying boy stopped. The elder brother called aloud to 
him, but no reply came, and, half mad with grief and 
anxiety, he struggled so at his fetters that, iron though 
they were, he burst them asunder, and sprang to his 
153 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

brother’s side. But the boy was dead ; he had reached 
him too late to be of any assistance. He was left alone 
in the gloomy dungeon. 

What happened after that the prisoner hardly knew. 
His jailers came to him, bringing him the usual bread 
and water and coarse prison fare, but he lay half- 
unconscious on the ground, longing only to die and be 
with his brothers. How long he lay in this kind of trance 
he did not know, but suddenly he was aroused by the 
clear, sweet singing of a bird. Looking up in astonish- 
ment he saw, perched high up in a crevice in the wall, a 
bird with azure-coloured wings. Never before had he 
seen a bird resembling it, and it seemed to the poor 
prisoner that it was his brother’s soul come down to him 
from Paradise. 

Not for long did the little visitor stay in the dungeon. 
Its song finished, it spread its wings and flew away 
through the crevice ; but it had done its work. It had 
brought back a little hope and peace to the mind of the 
captive man. 

A change came to the prisoner after his brother’s 
death. His keepers seemed to grovj more compassionate ; 
they left his broken chain unfastened, and he was at 
liberty to stride from side to side of the dungeon, trailing 
the broken links behind him. He was even allowed to 
make a rough footing up to the crevice from which the 
bird had sung, not in the hope of escaping, for that was 
impossible, but in order that he might once again gaze 
out over the lake to the blue mountains in the distance. 

Life grew happier for him after that. He was utterly 
alone in the world, and there was no human being he 
need be anxious about now. He was no longer chained 

154 


The Prisoner of C billon 

in a torturing position at the base of the stone pillar, but 
was free to stretch his limbs within the confines of his 
prison ; and, best of all, through the crevice in the wall 
he was able to catch a glimpse into the outside world. 
He could see the mountains, standing unchanged as they 
had stood through such countless years. He could see 
the blue waters of the Rhone River as it leapt over the 
rocks and boulders to the lake — sometimes, even, he could 
hear the noise of the foaming torrents. 

Far away in the distance he could see the white walls 
of the town, or the still whiter sails of the fishing-boats 
as they plied to and fro upon the lake. A little island 
was directly in front of his peephole, the only one in 
view, a small, green isle scarcely broader than his dungeon 
floor. Three tall trees grew upon it, and beautiful flowers 
of almost every hue, and the wind, as it blew into the 
prisoner’s face, seemed to bring the scent of them to 
him on its bosom. Fish swam by the castle walls. By 
gazing very intently the prisoner could see them. 

And sometimes he would see the great eagles from 
the mountain-tops circling in the air. But the sight of 
the eagles always brought pain and sadness into his heart. 
The birds were so strong, so free, so happy, and the 
captive would slide back into the darkness of his dungeon 
at the sight of them, almost wishing that he had never 
left it to gaze upon the fair world he could never call his 
own again. 

But freedom came to him at last, though how long it 
was before it came he never knew. It might have been 
days or months or years, for he took no count of time; 
but one day men came to set him free. He did not ask 
any questions of them or why or wherefore he was to 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

be set free. He was stunned by the long silence and the 
darkness, and he let them lead him out without a word. 

But now that he could go where he liked he found 
himself longing for his dungeon again. He had been a 
prisoner so long that he did not know what to do with 
his liberty now that he had regained it. He had made 
friends with the spiders and the mice that had lived in 
his prison, and it hurt him to have to say good-bye to 
them, knowing that he should never see them again. 
Even his chains had grown dear to him. 

Poor captive ! F reedom had come too late to be of 
any value to him. His hair had grown grey — not with 
years, but with the suffering through which he had passed. 
His limbs were bent and feeble from long disuse, and he 
bore upon them the marks of the chains he had worn, 
marks which would never leave him while he lived. The 
very sunshine was painful to his eyes, which had grown 
so used to the gloom of his dismal prison. He had no 
friend or living relative in the world ; the only thing left 
to him was pride in having borne all the pain and suffer- 
ing and in having been true to the faith for which his 
father and brothers had given up their lives. He was 
worthy to meet them in Heaven, he thought to himself, 
and the thought gave him courage and strength to go 
on living until it should please God to end his weary life 
and re-unite him to his loved ones once again. 

“ One in fire and two in field, 

Their belief with blood have sealed ; 

Dying as their father died, 

For the God their foes denied. 

Three were in a dungeon cast, 

Of whom this wreck is left the last.” 


156 


The Boy and the Angel 

fT~~ 1 ^HERE was once a poor boy named Theocrite 
who had been brought up amongst the monks at 

J a convent. He was given his own special tasks 
to do, and day by day he laboured at his work, singing 
praises to the God Who had given him life and Who kept 
him well and strong to labour for Him. At morning 
and evening, at noonday and at midnight was his voice 
uplifted. 

“Praise God,” he sang, and his voice rose up so 
sweet and pure, carrying with it such unfeigned love, 
such trust and confidence, that God on His great throne 
stooped down to listen to the lad’s song. 

One day, as Theocrite finished his song of praise and 
turned again to his work, one of the monks, who had 
been listening unknown to the boy, entered the cell where 
he worked and smiled at him. 

“Well done, my son,” he said kindly. “ I doubt 
not God hath heard thy voice to-day as well as though 
thou wert praising Him in the Pope’s great way at Rome. 
This is Easter Day, as thou knowest, and to-day beneath 
Peter’s dome the Pope praises God even as thou hast 
praised Him from thy humble cell.” 

Theocrite flung back the curls that fell about his face 
as he stooped over his work and sighed. 

“ Ah ! ” he said, “ would God that I too might praise 
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Him once in that great way ! Could I but lift my heart 
to Him as Pope at Rome there would be nothing left for 
me to wish for.” 

The day passed away. Night came, and when the 
morning shone once more Theocrite was gone. The 
Angel Gabriel had heard the boy’s wish, and had answered 
the dream of many a long year. He bore the boy from 
the craftsman’s cell where he had laboured so long and 
faithfully and set him in St. Peter’s at Rome — a priest 
who should one day be Pope. 

But God missed the voice that rose no longer from 
the small cell. 

“ Neither night nor day, evening or morning, brings 
me now the voice of my delight,” He said. 

Then the Angel Gabriel spread his wings and, leaving 
his place in Heaven, he flew down to earth and entered 
the cell in place of Theocrite. He took the boy’s form 
and laboured at the humble work ; and morning, evening, 
noon and night he lifted up his voice in praise to God as 
Theocrite had done. 

And here for many a year he lived and worked, bend- 
ing over his trade, content to do God’s will wherever he 
might be. And he who seemed to be Theocrite grew 
from boyhood to manhood, from manhood to old age, and 
ever as he worked he sang the song which Theocrite had 
sung. But God from His throne heard the song, and 
knew that the voice was not Theocrite ’s voice. 

‘ 4 In my ear there is a praise which has in it no doubt, 
no fear,” He said. “It is a song of perfect obedience, 
perfect worship, perfect willingness to do My will ; but 
it is not the voice of human love which used to please 
Me. I miss My little human praise.” 

158 


The Boy and the Angel 

Gabriel heard God’s voice, and throwing off his dis- 
guise, he took once more his angel’s form and flew to 
Rome. It was Easter morning, and as the angel hovered 
over the great dome of St. Peter’s the new Pope Theo- 
crite stood in his tiring-room close by, waiting for the 
moment when he should begin the ceremony of praise. 
As he waited all his past life came back to his memory, 
from the time when he used to work in his little cell to 
this moment, when he stood waiting for the fulfilment 
of his boyhood’s dreams. And as he stood lost in thought 
the Angel Gabriel appeared before him, as he had 
appeared to him once before, so many years ago. 

4 4 1 bore thee from thy craftsman’s cell and set thee 
here,” said the angel, 44 but I did not well. Your voice 
grew weak and ever weaker as you rose to power and 
honour, and God has missed your song of praise, the 
praise which even I could not supply, though I left my 
angel-sphere and took your place. Go back to your cell 
and become once more the humble craftsman, and praise 
God again in the early way. I will remain here and take 
your place as Pope.” 

So Gabriel bore Theocrite back to his cell, and there 
once more Theocrite bent over his daily task as he had 
done in his boyhood’s days. There, day by day, he lifted 
up his voice to God as he had done long ago ; and bend- 
ing down from His throne to listen, God smiled and was 
content. For this was once more the song in which He 
had delighted, the little human strain of praise and love. 


159 


The Raven 


A COMPANY of pigs was once feeding beneath 
a great oak tree in a forest. The acorns were 
ripe and were falling fast, and the pigs grunted 
contentedly as they crunched them. When they had 
cleared the ground they trotted off, for the wind was 
growing high and rain was beginning to fall, and since 
there was nothing left to eat under the oak tree, they were 
better at home in shelter for the night. 

There was one acorn left under the tree, but the pigs 
had not noticed it, and, even if they had, one acorn would 
not have gone very far amongst them all. But after they 
had gone a raven flew by, and his sharp eyes spied out 
the acorn which the pigs had left. 

This raven was blacker than the blackest jet. He was 
very old, and people said that he belonged to a witch and 
possessed half-magical powers of his own. Certainly, as 
he flew along in the rain, his feathers were not even wet ! 
He swooped down and picked up the acorn which the 
pigs had left, and flying away with it, he buried it deep 
in the ground beside a broad river. Then he flew away. 

Many autumns and many springs passed. Many 
summers and many winters did the raven travel on his 
wandering wings, and many strange sights did he see, 
and many were the adventures that befell him. But at 
last, after a long, long time, he came back to the place 

160 


The Raven 

where he had buried the acorn, and with him he brought 
his mate. The acorn had grown to a tall young tree by 
this time, and in its topmost boughs the ravens built their 
nest and had their young ones. They were very happy 
together, for they loved each other very dearly. 

But their happiness was not to last long. One day 
there came to the river-side a man who was dressed in 
the leathern dress of a forester. He was stern and nigged 
of feature, and in his hand he had an axe. He did not 
speak a word, but setting to work immediately, with 
many a stout stroke he brought down the poor ravens’ 
own oak tree. 

The two ravens hung around the tree screaming and 
wailing, while the sturdy young stem quivered beneath 
the woodman’s blows. But their outcry was of no avail. 
The man went steadily on with his work, and soon the 
tree fell. The ravens’ young ones were killed, for they 
were not yet fully fledged and could not fly away, and 
the poor parent birds saw their little ones lying dead on 
the ground before their eyes. 

Bitterly did the ravens mourn, and presently the 
mother raven died of grief and sorrow. And at this double 
loss in the heart of the black raven there sprang up a 
bitter hatred and a longing for revenge. He hovered 
around the spot where he had been so happy, watching 
the woodman at his work, and planning and hoping that 
one day something might happen to avenge the death 
of his dear ones. 

The woodman sawed the boughs of the oak tree from 
the trunk, and let them float down the river to the wood- 
yard. There, workmen took them and stripped them of 
their bark, and sawed them into planks. The planks were 
l 161 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

handed on to other workmen, and from the boughs of 
the oak tree was made, at last, a ship. And the raven, 
ever hovering near, watched the building of it. 

At last the ship was ready for launching, and then, 
with her crew and passengers on board, she set sail on 
her first voyage. The raven accompanied her. He 
seemed to know that the hour of his revenge was drawing 
near. Perhaps, indeed, he did know, for birds are very 
wise, and this bird was wiser than most. 

While the ship was still within sight of land a terrible 
storm arose, a storm no ship could withstand however 
stoutly it was built. The ship’s men did all they could, 
but all their efforts were useless. The ship was driven 
out of her course by the raging wind, and ran on to a 
rock. The waves rushed in fast, and soon it was clear to 
all that the vessel must sink. 

Overhead, riding secure above the storm, flew the 
raven. Cawing with joy, he flew round and round, rejoic- 
ing in the fate that had overtaken the ship. He heard 
the last shriek of the perishing souls ; he saw the waters 
close over the topmost mast ; and then, in the place where 
the stately ship had floated, he saw nothing but a wild 
stretch of foaming waves and water. 

Then he flew away, and for the first time since he 
had lost his little ones he was content. He did not care 
that so many innocent people had been drowned — they 
were men, and it was a man who had robbed him of his 
home and his dear ones. He cared not for their sorrows, 
for they had not eared for his. Right glad was his heart 
as he flew away from the scene of the shipwreck. Man- 
kind was his enemy. Man had taken his all, and revenge 
was sweet ! 


How They Brought the Good News 
from Ghent to Aix 


I T was midnight, and the moon was setting over the 
town of Ghent, when three horsemen came galloping 
through the postern gate. 

4 4 Good speed! ” cried the watchman as he flung the 
gate wide and then bolted it again behind the flying 
figures, and the walls echoed his words in the riders’ ears ; 
but the horsemen did not pause to answer the man’s greet- 
ing. They were bound on an errand of life and death, 
for they carried news, great news, good news — news which 
would save the town of Aix from a terrible fate if they 
could but bring it to her in time. 

But could they ? That was the question ! Only a few 
hours were left. Unless the three riders could reach Aix 
in a time that seemed almost impossibly short the town 
would be lost. 

Out into the midnight gloom, riding abreast, galloped 
the three horsemen. Not a word did they speak, for 
time was too precious to allow of one unnecessary breath 
being wasted. Neck by neck, stride by stride, never 
changing their places, they galloped on. Once one of 
them turned in his saddle and tightened his horse’s girth, 
shortened the stirrups, and slackened the bit ; but the 
horse, Roland, galloped steadily onwards. He knew and 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

loved and trusted his master, and it almost seemed as 
though he knew how much hung on his being able to 
maintain his speed. 

For some hours they galloped on in dead silence. It 
was midnight when they had started from Ghent, but at 
Lokeren the cock crew, and twilight began to dawn. At 
Boom the yellow morning star was seen, and at Duffeld 
it was morning as plain as could be. From Mecheln 
church steeple a clock chimed out, and then one of the 
men broke the silence the three had maintained since they 
started on their ride. 

“Yet there is time,” he said ; and then relapsed into 
silence once more. 

As they reached Aerschot the sun broke through the 
mist. The riders as they galloped by could see the cattle 
in the meadows, black shapes rising out of the thick haze 
that lay on the grass. Every moment the surrounding 
scenery grew clearer as the sun rolled away the morning 
mist, yet still the three men galloped steadily onwards, 
though they could tell that their horses were beginning 
to feel the strain of that terrible ride. And by Hasselt 
one of the men gave a groan as he felt his mare stumble 
and totter beneath him. 

“Stay, Dirck ! ” cried the man Joris, he who had 
spoken before. “ Stay your spur. Your Roos has galloped 
bravely — it’s not her fault. We’ll tell them when we 

reach Aix ” But he left his speech unfinished, for 

with a quick wheeze of her chest and a horrible heave of 
her flank, Dirck’s mare sank down upon her haunches, 
and her rider came heavily with her to the ground. 

The two men who were left had no time to waste in 
pitying their comrade’s misfortune. They might not even 

164 



99 


“ He bent over his horse’s head, petting and caressing him. 













t 











* 












































































































% 









How They Brought the Good News from Ghent 

stop to see if he was hurt, for not for one moment dared 
they draw rein. Aix must be saved if they could save it. 
Friendship and all else must be forgotten in that stern 
race against time. 

On and on they flew, past Looz, past Tongres, while 
the sun blazed down upon them pitilessly from a cloudless 
sky, until suddenly in the distance a white spire was seen 
against the blue horizon. 

“ Gallop ! ” gasped Joris, “ for Aix is in sight ! How 

they’ll greet us ” And then in a moment his horse 

rolled over and lay on the ground, dead as a stone, leaving 
the third horse and his rider to bear the whole weight of 
the news which alone could save Aix. 

The third man gave a despairing glance at the white 
spire which still seemed so far away. Could they possibly 
do it? Already his horse’s eyes were bloodshot and dim, 
blood was beginning to spurt from his nostrils, he was 
almost done. At any moment he too might fall dead upon 
the road as Joris ’s horse had fallen — and then what would 
happen to Aix? But of that the rider dared not think. 

He bent over his horse’s head, petting and caressing 
him. 

“ Roland, Roland ! ” he cried. “We must do it ; we 
must!” And it seemed as though Roland understood 
his rider’s words, for he galloped on bravely, though his 
breath came in great shuddering gasps, while his master 
flung off his coat and his boots, his belt, his holsters, and 
everything of which he could possibly rid himself in order 
to lessen the burden the brave horse must carry. And 
still brave Roland galloped on and on, while every moment 
brought the white spires of Aix nearer. 

“ Brave Roland ! Good Roland ! My horse without 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

peer! ” cried the rider, standing up in his stirrups, pat- 
ting his steed’s neck, clapping his hands, almost mad with 
excitement, laughing, singing, cheering his horse on, until 
at last into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

They had done it ! Aix was saved, though how he 
told the news that saved her the rider never knew. All 
he remembered was sitting on the ground while the people 
flocked around him, his one thought for the brave horse 
who had accomplished such a wonderful ride, and who 
now lay gasping with his head between his master’s knees. 
But he told his tale somehow, and when the people under- 
stood what the horse had done a mighty cheer arose from 
the crowd, and somebody brought in haste the last measure 
of wine that was left in the town. 

4 4 It is no more than his due,” cried the burghers, as 
they helped the horseman to pour the liquid down brave 
Roland’s throat ; and they rejoiced as much as the horse’s 
master when the gallant steed showed signs of reviving. 

And that is the story of how the good town of Aix 
was once saved from a terrible fate. 

And all I remember is, friends flocking round 

As I sate with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground, 

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. 


166 


The Princess 


A YOUNG Prince once lived in a northern 
country. He was very fair to look at, with blue 
eyes, and yellow hair that clustered round his 
head almost like the curls of a maiden. But besides being 
beautiful, he was tall and strong and brave, and the people 
of his father’s kingdom loved him very dearly. 

When the Prince was still but a boy he had been 
betrothed to the little daughter of the king who ruled 
over the country to the south of his father’s lands. The 
little Princess was but eight years old at the time, and she 
grew up from girlhood to womanhood without ever seeing 
her future husband, though news of her wonderful grace 
and beauty often reached the Prince in his northern court. 
The Prince longed for the time to come when the Princess 
would be wholly his, and next to his heart he wore a 
portrait of his bride-to-be, and one dark curl of hair, which 
had been sent to him at the time of his betrothal. 

At last the Prince came of age, and his father’s coun- 
cillors decided that it was time that he should be married. 
The old King sent ambassadors with many rich jewels and 
gifts to fetch the Princess, and the King and the Prince 
and all their people waited eagerly for their return. But 
when the ambassadors came back they came without the 
Princess. They brought valuable presents from King 
Gama, the Princess’s father, and many messages of 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

apology, but they did not bring the eagerly expected 
bride. It seemed that the Princess Ida, whose mother 
had died when she was still almost a baby, had been 
terribly spoilt by her father and brothers, and had grown 
up with a very determined will of her own. The lady 
who had taken charge of her education had filled her head 
with strange ideas about the independence of women ; 
and when the Princess was old enough she had persuaded 
her father to give her a large estate, on which she had 
founded a college for girls. There with the Lady Blanche, 
her governess, and another of her woman friends, the 
Princess lived and ruled, while women from all over the 
country flocked to her academy to enrol themselves as 
students. The Princess regarded her childish betrothal 
as in no way binding upon her, and utterly refused to wed 
the Prince or any other man. She had dedicated herself 
to the service of her downtrodden sisters, she said, and 
had made up her mind to spend her life amongst the 
students of her college. Her father sent many polite 
messages of regret, and begged the Prince’s father not to 
hold him responsible for his daughter’s whims. 

The morning the ambassadors returned the Prince was 
summoned in haste to his father’s presence-chamber. 
Accompanied by two of his closest friends, Florian and 
Cyril, he obeyed the summons. Florian had been brought 
up with him from childhood, and was as dear to the Prince 
as though he had been his brother, and Cyril, though he 
was a somewhat later acquaintance, was a great friend of 
both. Cyril was a brave and gallant gentleman, very just 
and generous at heart, though he was at times given too 
much to revelry and brawling. But in spite of this failing 
the other two loved him dearly, and were often able by 
168 


The Princess 

their influence to restrain him in his more boisterous 
moods. 

When the three young men had entered the presence- 
chamber the ambassadors delivered their message. The 
King’s face grew purple with anger as he listened, and 
when the ambassadors had finished speaking he rose to 
his feet and tore King Gama’s letter into fragments. 
Then he seized one of the gifts the king had sent to appease 
him, a wonderful piece of embroidery, almost priceless 
in value, and rent it in two, swearing that he would send 
a hundred thousand men to bring this wilful Princess to 
his court, whether she would or no. 

44 Send for my captains of war,” he shouted wrath- 
fully. 44 Let me commune with them what had best be 
done.” 

But here the Prince stepped forward. 

“ My father,” he said, 44 let me go to the court of this 
king and find out what lies beneath this matter. Maybe, 
when I have seen my bride for myself, I may rue the 
bargain.” 

Then Florian came and stood beside the Prince. 

“ Sire,” he said, “ I have a sister at the foreign court, 
as perhaps you remember — the Lady Psyche who wedded 
with a nobleman from thence. He died some little time 
ago, leaving her wealthy and her own mistress, and now 
I hear that she is with the Princess and waits upon her’ 
continually. Through her this misunderstanding might 
be cleared up. I pray you let me go with the Prince 
and sift the matter for ourselves.” 

“ And let me go too,” cried Cyril eagerly. 4 4 I’ll 
serve the Prince well if aught goes amiss, and I am tired 
of living this life of ease and luxury.” 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

But the King would not hear of the Prince’s going. 

“ No, you shall not go,” he roared roughly. “We 
ourselves, in iron gauntlets, will crush her maiden fancies 
dead. Break up the council ! ” And he rose and strode 
wrathfully out of the chamber, furious at having been thus 
set at naught by a maid. 

But the Prince and his two friends determined to steal 
away unknown to the King and visit this wilful Princess 
for themselves. And a few days later they left the court 
unperceived, crossed the frontier, and came by easy stages 
to the capital of the foreign land, where in the imperial 
palace they found King Gama, the Princess’s father. 

He was a little, dry, withered old man in appearance, 
not at all like a king to look at. He treated his three 
visitors with great honour and courtesy, but when the 
Prince spoke of the object of his errand he shook his head. 

“ You do us too much honour, Prince,” he said. “ I 
would with all my heart you had my daughter! But 
there were two widows here, the Lady Psyche and the 
Lady Blanche, who have stuffed her mind full with silly 
fancies, maintaining that with equal teaching a woman 
was the equal of a man. They harped on this one theme 
continually ; our very banquets and dances were broken 
up with talk of women and of women’s work, until my 
ears grew hot to hear it ! Knowledge, my daughter held, 
was all in all ! And then, sir, she took to writing odes ! 
Awful odes they were, for sure, though they that know 
such things called them masterpieces. I am no critic 
of such matters. I only sought for peace, but master- 
pieces they may have been, for certainly they mastered 
me ! At last she begged a boon, a certain summer palace 
of mine close to your father’s frontier, on which to found 
170 


The Princess 

a university for maidens. At first I said no ; but, being 
an easy man, I gave it in the end, and there she fled, and 
has, I hear, stocked her college full of women. 

“We know no more, for they will allow no men to 
enter their doors — not even my son Arac, though he and 
Ida were boon companions before she took this whim. I 
am loath to breed dispute between myself and mine ; but 
since you think me bound by that old treaty — with some 
right I confess — I will give you letters to my daughter 
if you care to journey to this college of hers. Although, 
to tell you the truth, I think your chance of seeing her 
may be rated at less than nothing.” 

But the young Prince would pay no heed to the king’s 
advice. All that he had heard of the Princess Ida only 
fired his desire to see her for himself, and accepting the 
letters King Gama offered to write for him, he rode back 
towards the north again with his two friends until they 
came to a little rustic town close to the summer palace. 

The three travellers entered the hostel of the place 
and called for the landlord. When he came they plied 
him with wine, and, showing him the king’s letters, they 
asked for his counsel. The host gave a long, low whistle 
and stared at the letters blankly ; then he shook his head. 

“ ’Tis clear against all their rules that you should go 
to the college,” he said, “ I can give you no advice, sirs. 
Once I saw the Princess as she passed, and heard her 
speak, and, upon my life, I can tell you she scared me. 
I never saw her like before. She looked as grand as 
doomsday and as grave. I have no wish to see more of 
her, yet still I reverence my liege lady, and I always make 
a point to post with mares now, to please her fancy. All 
the land here is ploughed and tilled by women for miles 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

around, and folks say all the swine are sows in compliment 
to her.” 

A sudden idea flashed into the Prince’s mind. He 
remembered once how he and his two companions had 
dressed as women for a pageant in his father’s hall, and 
how well they had passed for ladies in the crowd. He 
suggested to Florian and Cyril that they should disguise 
themselves now and apply for admittance to the college 
as three maidens from a foreign country who desired to 
avail themselves of the new education for women. Florian 
and Cyril hailed the plan rapturously, and the host was 
sent out at once to purchase female garments. The good 
man brought back a large bundle, and then he himself, 
shaking with laughter, helped the three men to attire 
themselves in their strange array. He laced up bodices 
and adjusted ribbons with a great zeal, and when at length 
three tall and buxom but good-looking damsels stood 
before him, he was immensely pleased with the result of 
his labours. The Prince gave him a costly bribe to ensure 
his silence, and then the three, mounting their steeds side- 
saddle, rode out on their bold adventure. 

It was dusk when they reached the college, and the 
lights from the windows of the stately building glittered 
like fireflies through the dark. The riders passed under 
an archway upon which was written some inscription, 
and found themselves in the college grounds. They rode 
up to the great doorway, and two sturdy stable women 
came running to help them dismount and lead their 
horses to shelter. A buxom porteress stepped forward 
and ushered them into the college, and finding they had 
come to stay, led them to some vacant rooms. The new 
arrivals asked the woman some questions about the place, 
172 


The Princess 

and they found that students were expeeted to enrol 
themselves under one or other of the two tutors, the Lady 
Psyche or the Lady Blanche. 

“ Which is the prettiest and the best-natured? ” asked 
the Prince. 

“ Oh, the Lady Psyche,” came the unhesitating reply ; 
and sitting down at the writing-table the Prince wrote in 
a disguised female hand : 

“ Three ladies of the Northern Empire pray 
Your Highness would enrol them with your own, 

As Lady Psyche’s pupils.” 

This note, after he had sealed it, the Prince gave to 
the porteress to deliver to the Princess, and then the 
three conspirators, laughing and joking in undertones, 
divested themselves of their strange attire and went to bed. 

Early next morning the college porteress came again, 
bringing them academic gowns of lilac silk, bound round 
with gold braid. The Princess Ida was waiting to re- 
ceive them, she told them, and, helping them into their 
gowns, she told them to follow her. She led the three 
men through the long corridors, and out into the court- 
yard and terraces where groups of young girls, as fresh and 
sweet as flowers in May, walked or sat, with books in 
their hands. The new-comers had no time to look and 
admire as they would have liked, for their guide led them 
quickly by, and up a flight of steps into a hall where the 
Princess herself was sitting. 

The Prince drew his breath with a gasp of admiration 
as his eyes fell upon her. She was indeed beautiful — more 
beautiful even than report had said. She was tall and 
graceful, with a form that might have belonged to some 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

goddess of old. Her eyes were dark and compelling, and 
grace and power and ibeauty seemed to breathe from every 
part of her long, slender hands and feet. She rose as 
her new students entered and greeted them kindly though 
with great dignity. 

“We give you welcome,” she said graciously. “ You 
are the first fruits of the stranger to enrol within these 
halls. In after years men will rank you with me, the 
pioneers of those who brought release and hope to 
women.” Then, as she looked at the new arrivals more 
closely, she gave a little exclamation of astonishment. 

“ What — are the ladies of your land so tall? ” she said. 

“We of the court are,” answered Cyril. 

“You come from the court?” asked the Princess. 
“ Then you know the Prince? ” 

“ Indeed we do,” said Cyril glibly. “ He is indeed 
the climax of his age ! And as though there were but 
one rose in the world, and that your Highness, he worships 
your ideal.” 

“We scarcely thought, here in our own halls, to hear 
this barren clink of compliment,” she said witheringly. 
“ Your flight from out your bookless wilds seemed to 
argue that you had some love of knowledge, but your 
language proves you still the child. Whatever the Prince 
may think of us, we dream not of the Prince. When we 
set our hand to this great work we purposed not to wed, 
nor yet to talk of wedding ; and you yourselves, ladies, on 
entering here will do well to cast aside those foolish 
tricks and graces which make us toys of men.” 

The three listened with downcast eyes, abashed at her 
rebuke, yet scarcely able to restrain their laughter. Then 
an officer of some sort rose and read aloud to them the 
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The Princess 

rules which all students who entered the college were 
expected to keep. To these the three strangers hardly 
listened as attentively as they should have done, but when 
the reading was over they signed their names in the 
register as they were directed, and the Princess formally 
admitted them as members of the college. Then she sent 
them away to join the class which was being held by the 
tutor whom they had chosen. 

Back across the terraces and the halls they went to the 
room where Lady Psyche was presiding over a class of 
girls. The teacher herself looked hardly more than a girl, 
although at her side, fast asleep, lay a little two-year-old 
baby, her little girl, Aglaia. Florian leant towards the 
others and whispered softly : 

44 My sister — comely, too, by all that’s fair! ” But 
Cyril hushed him, and when the three had settled them- 
selves the class began. 

In spite of her girlish appearance, the Lady Psyche 
was eloquent enough, and the three men sat marvelling 
at her learning, and the fluency of her oration. They sat 
as quiet as any of the real students, until at last the lecture 
was over and the class rose up to go. Then the tutor 
bec3:oned to her new pupils, and when they came to her 
she welcomed them kindly and gave them a few words of 
advice as to the books they would require. She was 
about to leave them and pass on when suddenly her eyes 
met Florian ’s, and she started back with a cry of horror 
and dismay. 

44 My brother! ” she exclaimed, shrinking away from 
him, while her face turned pale. 

Florian smiled at her gaily. 

4 4 Well, my sister,” he said. 

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“ Oh,” she cried in anguish. “ What do you here, 
and in this dress? And who are these? Oh, they too 
are men ! A wolf within the fold — a pack of wolves — a 
plot to ruin all ! ” 

Florian laughed aloud at her dismay. 

“It is no plot, my sister,” he said, but the Lady 
Psyche’s distress was genuine enough, and she would not 
be reassured. 

“Wretched boy — what have you done?” she cried. 
“ Did you not read the inscription on the gate : 6 Let no 
man enter in on pain of death ’ ? ” 

“ No, we did not,” answered Florian, still laughing. 
“ And, even if we had, surely the sweet sirens of your 
academy are not such as would chant over the bones of 
dead men? ” 

“Do not jest! ” cried the lady in distress. “You 
will find it is no matter for jesting. My vow binds me 
to speak — and, oh, the iron will of the Princess, our 
Head! ” 

“Well, then, Psyche,” said Florian, “take my life 
an you will. Bury me beside the gate for a warning, and 
cut this epitaph above my bones : ‘ Here lies a brother, 
slain by his sister for the common good of womenkind.’ ” 

“ Let me die too,” said Cyril gallantly, “ having once 
seen and heard the Lady Psyche.” 

“ And I also,” said the Prince. “ Although I come 
thus in disguise, madam, I love the truth. I am the 
Prince, your countryman, affianced years ago to the 
Princess Ida. Since there was no other way to come here, 
I have come thus.” 

“Oh, sir, oh, Prince! ” cried Psyche, growing more 
and more agitated with every moment. “ I have no 
176 


The Princess 

country now. Love- whispers may not breathe within this 
vestal hall, and how can I say 4 live ’ ? ” 

The three men pleaded with her, half in earnest, half 
in fun. Florian appealed to her by all she held sacred in 
the old love which they had borne to each other as brother 
and sister. The Prince pointed out to her all that her 
house owed in loyalty to her country and her country’s 
prince. And Cyril, using perhaps a stronger argument 
than all, turned to the little sleeping Aglaia, and asked 
Psyche how could she, the mother of such a child, betray 
three of her own countrymen to death. And at last 
their arguments prevailed over Psyche’s sense of duty, 
and they wrung a promise from her that she would hold 
her peace. 

44 But one thing you must do,” she said. 44 You must 
slip away at the earliest opportunity — to-day, if possible, 
to-morrow at the very latest. It shall be said that the 
foreign women were barbarous, that they would not learn 
and so fled. Promise that you will do this, else you must 
surely die ! ’ ’ 

The three men could not do less than promise, and 
then Psyche, having gained this point, seemed a little 
more at ease. She turned to Florian with a faint smile 
and held out her hands to him. 

44 1 knew you as soon as I looked closely at you,” she 
said. 44 Though you have grown, you have not altered 
much. I am both sad and glad to see you, Florian. I 
give you to death? Oh, my brother, it was duty spoke, 
not I. Pardon my seeming harshness.” 

She threw herself impetuously into his arms, and while 
the other two stood a little apart, she and Florian talked 
eagerly together. While they stood so, Florian with his 

M 177 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

arms about his sister, there came a voice from the doorway 
which made them all start. 

“ I have brought a message from the Lady Blanche,” 
said the voice. 

Brother and sister fell apart, and the others turned 
hastily round to see who spoke. There, at the entrance 
to the room, with her hand upon the latch, stood a girl 
with sunny, golden hair and eyes as blue and sweet and 
clear as the crystal waters of the morning sea. 

Psyche took a step forward. 

“Melissa, you! You heard us? ” 

“ Oh, pardon me,” cried the girl. “ I heard, I 
could not help it. But, dearest Lady Psyche, fear 
me not — I would not give three gallant gentlemen to 
death.” 

“ I trust you,” said Psyche, recovering herself a little. 
“We have always been friends, we two, have we not, 
and I know that you are trustworthy. But, oh, dearest, 
be prudent ! Remember your mother’s jealous tempera- 
ment — the Lady Blanche has ever been my foe. Tell her 
nothing, let her guess nothing, or I shall lose my honour 
and these three gentlemen their lives.” 

“Fear not, I will be careful,” said Melissa 
reassuringly. 

Lady Psyche turned to the three men. 

“ Now go,” she said ; “ we have already been too long 
together. Keep your hoods about your faces, it is the rule 
to do so here if we wish to think deeply and not be dis- 
turbed. Speak as little as you can, and do not mix with 
the others, and remember your promise. All, I trust, 
will yet be well.” 

The Prince and his companions, half vexed, half 
178 


The Princess 

amused at the turn events had taken, left their tutor, and 
for the rest of that day wandered about the college 
grounds. Cyril had fallen deeply in love with the Lady 
Psyche, and already he was making plans to lure her 
away from these old grey halls. Florian was thinking of 
Melissa’s blue eyes and sunny hair; and the Prince was 
dreaming of his Princess, wondering how he was to woo 
her, sometimes almost despairing of ever winning her, 
yet determined to declare his love to her one day, or die 
in the attempt. 

So the day passed, and the night, and the next morn- 
ing came, and the three intruders rose from sleep and 
dressed themselves once more in their unaccustomed 
garments. They went downstairs early, and wandered 
out into the grounds, discussing their plans for escaping 
from the college. As they stood beside a fountain, watch- 
ing the play of its waters, Melissa came up to them. Her 
face was pale from lack of sleep, and her eyes were misty 
still from shedding many tears. 

“You must fly ! ” she cried as she drew near. 44 Fly 
while yet you may. My mother knows ! ” 

4 4 Knows ! How does she know? ” asked the Prince, 
and the girl bowed her face in her hands and wept. 

44 It was my fault,” she said, “and yet not wholly 
mine. My mother is jealous of Lady Psyche. She thinks 
that the Princess loves her better than herself, and every 
night when we are alone together in our chamber she 
rails at Lady Psyche. Last night she began to speak 
scornfully of you. The Lady Psyche’s countrywomen ! 
She did not envy her — who ever saw such wild barbarians ? 
Girls? They were more like men. And, oh, sirs, I 
could not help it, but at these words my cheeks began to 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

burn and burn. Her lynx eyes were fixed upon me, and 
suddenly she guessed the truth. 

“Why — these — are men?” she said. And I shud- 
dered, and she caught me fiercely by the shoulder. 

“And you know it! ” she cried. “And she, Lady 
Psyche, knows it too! ” And so my mother learnt the 
truth, though through no word from me. As soon as 
she is risen she is going to inform the Princess. The Lady 
Psyche will be crushed, but your lives may yet be saved if 
only you will fly at once. But, I pray you, pardon me 
before you go.” 

The poor child was weeping again in her distress, and 
Cyril tried to laugh her tears away. 

“What pardon do we owe you?” he said gaily. 
“ See, I will go to this marble mother of yours and melt 
her into wax. Mayhap she will grant us at least some 
further time of grace.” And with no more ado he went, 
though Melissa shook her curly head doubtfully and said 
he would not prosper. 

But he did prosper to a certain extent, and presently 
he came back to his two companions — Melissa had left 
them by this time, for she dared not stay with them longer 
— and told them of his success. 

“ It was a hard task, though,” he said with a grin. 
“ I had to force my way through solid opposition, I can 
tell you. By my faith, I’d rather clear a primeval forest 
any day than have to hammer more at this reverend 
gentlewoman. I reached her door and knocked, and, 
being bidden to enter, I entered and found her, as good 
luck would have it, on the very point of going to the 
Princess with her tale. I was as courteous as a man could 
well be ; every phrase was well oiled, yet, maiden-meek, 
180 


T he Princess 

I prayed her for concealment. She demanded to know 
why we came, and, following your example, Prince, I 
told her the truth. I pleaded with her for our lives, hop- 
ing to touch her woman’s heart. But that did not move 
her, nor yet my plea that harm would come of it to her 
daughter did she tell. Then I told her that war with 
your father would surely follow our deaths, but she replied 
that her duty was clear whatever might come of it; her 
duty was to speak. I was wellnigh discouraged by this 
time ; yet I knew that there is no rock so hard but that a 
little wave may beat admission somewhere in time, so I 
tried another tack. I told her that she would lose nothing 
if she favoured us. I promised her that did she but help 
my Prince to gain his rightful bride we would see her put 
in the first place of all. And this did move her somewhat. 
She has promised to think it over and let us know her 
answer some time to-day. Meanwhile she will be mute. 
This much I have gained, at least.” 

Just as Cyril finished his tale, and before the others 
could discuss the matter properly, there came a message 
to them from the Princess. That afternoon she was rid- 
ing abroad to take a survey of a certain piece of land in 
the neighbourhood, and she invited the stranger students 
to ride with her. The invitation was as good as a com- 
mand and could not well be refused, and, the minds of 
all three adventurers being set upon it, a message of 
acceptance and thanks was framed and sent. And that 
afternoon, at the appointed hour, the three were sum- 
moned to the great porch, where the Princess stood 
awaiting them. She looked very beautiful as she stood 
there, her foot on one of the tame leopards which accom- 
panied her wherever she went. She herself had tamed the 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

fierce beasts, and now they were as gentle as kittens with 
their mistress. 

The strangers, being provided with steeds and caval- 
cade, set out, the Prince riding beside Ida, Florian beside 
Melissa, while Cyril kept by Psyche, with whom he was 
falling more and more deeply in love. It was a happy 
ride to all three of them, especially to the Prince, whose 
pulses seemed to beat the faster for the nearness of the 
woman he had worshipped from afar for so many years. 
She was even sweeter and more desirable than he had 
imagined, but though he was so happy, yet at times he 
grew a little doubtful and sad, wondering in himself 
whether this strange poet-princess, with her grand 
imagination, and her pure, lofty ideals, might ever be won: 

At length the riding party reached a flowery meadow 
where they all dismounted ; and here the Princess com- 
manded that her pavilion should be put up, while she and 
her immediate companions set out to climb to the moun- 
tain top, which was the object of their ride. She still 
kept beside the Prince, and his heart beat more and more 
quickly, as sometimes she leant on him for guidance or 
gave him her hand to help him over a stony path. It 
was all he could do at times to refrain from catching her 
in his arms, but that would have betrayed everything, 
and so by a great effort of self-control he restrained his 
passion. He walked beside her, answering her questions, 
and doing all he could to prevent her from seeing the 
emotion which was nearly overwhelming him. 

They reached the mountain-top, and then they 
descended again to the pavilion, where, reclining on downy 
pillows, they lay and rested, while serving-maids handed 
round wine and dainty foods. 

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The Princess 

When all had eaten and drunken Ida called for music, 
and one after another her maids rose up and sang. After 
a while she turned to the Prince, who was still beside her. 

“ Know you no song of your own land? ” she asked, 
and the Prince remembered a song that he himself had 
once made. It was a love song, one he had composed 
while he was dreaming of the Princess long before he had 
ever seen her; and now, imitating a >voman’s voice as 
best he could, he rose up and sang it. 

He sang the song with redoubled fervour and meaning, 
for it seemed to him that the words had grown truer and 
more full of sentiment now that he had seen his Princess. 
But Ida’s lips curled scornfully as the song ended, for love 
songs were little to her taste. Indeed, it was one of the 
rules of her college that no mention should be made of 
the word “love,” in so far as it referred to the love 
between men and women. 

“ A mere love-poem,” she said disdainfully. “ Know, 
my friend, we hold such of slight account. Great is song 
when used to great and worthy ends ; but songs such as 
this do but blaspheme the muse. Know you no song, 
the true growth of your soul, that will tell us the manners 
of your countrywomen? ” 

She looked at the Prince kindly, in spite of the rebuke 
conveyed by her words, and her eyes, shining with expec- 
tation, fixed themselves on his. He racked his brains to 
think of such a song, for at that moment he would have 
done anything in the world to please her. But while he 
thought, Cyril, whose dare-devil nature had been aroused 
by the wine he had just drunk and the sense of peril by 
which they were surrounded, suddenly began to troll forth 
a tavern song, unfit for ladies’ ears at any time, doubly 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

unfit now in this strange situation. Florian endeavoured 
to hush him, but in vain. He sang on recklessly, while 
Lady Psyche flushed and trembled, and Melissa hid her 
face in her hands. The other girls and women stared at 
him in horrified amazement, and the Princess cried 
indignantly : 

“Forbear, forbear! ” 

The Prince, angered beyond control at the insult 
offered to the Princess, sprang to his feet. 

“ Forbear, sir! ” he cried passionately, and forgetting 
in the heat of the moment the part he should have played, 
he struck the singer full upon the breast. 

With an angry oath Cyril started up, but what he 
intended to do was never known. A shriek arose amongst 
the women as they realised that the three strangers were 
men. There was a clamour and confusion in the tent, 
and the Princess, endeavouring to still the disorder, cried 
loudly : 

“ To horse, to horse ! ” 

Her command was instantly obeyed. The women 
rushed from the pavilion in fear and dismay and began to 
mount their steeds. In a few moments the three men 
were left alone. Even the Princess fled, moved from her 
usual calm and self-possession. To leave the meadow it 
was necessary to cross a foaming mountain torrent by a 
frail pinewood bridge. The Princess, blind with rage, 
did not look where she was riding. She missed the plank, 
and she and her horse slipped together into the roaring 
stream, and a fresh cry of dismay arose from her women. 

“ The Princess — oh, the Head, the Head!” they 
shrieked, and at the cry the Prince sprang forward. In 
a moment he grasped what had happened. The horse 

]&4 


The Princess 

had already been whirled away by the fierce current, and 
the Princess’s white robes gleamed from the water as she 
was hurled along to the horrible falls that lay but a short 
distance below. There was not a moment to be lost, and 
the Prince, clothed though he was in woman’s vesture, 
sprang in after her. 

He caught her by an almost superhuman effort, and 
then, swimming with one arm while he clasped her in the 
other, he tried to bring his precious burden to land. The 
current ran so strongly that he could make no headway 
against it, and for a few moments it seemed that he would 
be swept over the falls with the Princess in his arms. But 
fortunately a broken tree hung out over the river, and as 
they were borne past the Prince managed to clutch one 
of its boughs. Then, hand over hand, he pulled himself 
to the shore, where the Princess’s maidens drew them both 
safe to land. 

“ She lives — the Princess lives! ” they cried joyfully, 
and carried her tenderly back to the tent, while the Prince, 
ashamed to meet her opening eyes, and not caring to speak 
with his friends just then, pushed on alone through the 
woods back to the college. 

The riding-party had already returned when he reached 
the grounds, and the gates were shut. But, high and 
formidable though they were, he managed to scale them 
and dropped to the ground on the farther side. He did 
not dare to enter the college itself, however, so he paced 
up and down the grounds in the gathering gloom until, 
at last, night fell. 

Soon after it became dark he heard a step, and a 
moment after a tall form came into view. For an instant 
the Prince’s heart leapt up with joy, for he hoped that 
135 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

it was the Princess come to seek him. But it was only 
Florian. 

“Hush,” Florian whispered, as the Prince gave an 
eager exclamation. 4 4 They seek us everywhere, for it is 
against the rules to be out so late. Moreover, 4 Seize the 
strangers ! ’ is the cry within. I crept in after the others, 
unheeded in the confusion, and, unseen by any, I have 
waited in the great hall, hidden behind a statue. One 
by one each woman in the place has been called up and 
questioned. Each girl disclaimed all knowledge of us, 
save only Melissa. She would not betray us, but could 
not deny knowing us, and so kept silence, which the 
Princess, knowing her transparent nature, interpreted for 
guilt. They sent for Psyche, but she was not there, and 
then for Lady Blanche, but I, taking advantage of the 
moment’s pause, slipped out to find you. But where are 
Psyche and Cyril? Both are fled. I wish we had never 
come on this mad adventure.” 

Suddenly, as he finished speaking, two proctors sprang 
upon them calling out 44 Names?” Florian was seized, 
but the Prince, more nimble, sprang aside and, taking to 
his heels, began to run. In and out amongst the bushes 
he dodged and ran. He was fleet of foot and might have 
escaped, but laughter and amusement made him careless, 
and catching his feet in a trailing vine, he tripped and 
fell. In a moment his pursuers were upon him, and he 
was seized and recognised. Then he and Florian were 
hauled ignominiously before the Princess. 

Ida was sitting on her throne, her brow black with 
anger. Her hair was still damp from the stream, and 
on either side her handmaidens stood combing out the 
long dark tresses. Behind her stood her bodyguard, eight 
186 


The Princess 

strong women, daughters of the plough, while all around 
pressed the crowd of frightened, wondering students. 
The crowd divided to let the two men pass through, and 
they were led up to the foot of the throne, where a tense 
little group was gathered. Melissa knelt at the Princess’s 
feet, her face bowed on her hands, her shoulders shaking 
with pitiful sobs. Beside her lay the little Aglaia, Lady 
Psyche’s baby girl. The child was curled up sleepily on 
the purple footcloth, garbed only in her night robe, for 
she had been caught up hastily from her bed and brought 
to the great hall by Ida’s orders. And in front of the 
Princess stood the Lady Blanche, who was talking angrily. 

“You prized my counsel in the old days, before the 
Lady Psyche stole your love from me,” she said. 4 4 But 
when she came you turned your love to her and froze to 
me, who had been a second mother to you. This college 
was my plan. It was I who aided you to form it, whose 
counsel upheld you through all the difficulties and oppo- 
sition that met you. And what was my reward? I found 
that Psyche had taken my place with you. It was to her 
you turned for counsel, to her you sent the most promising 
students ; it was always her advice you took, not mine. 
Yet still I bore up in hope, thinking that one day you 
would know her for what she is. 

44 And then came these wolves. They knew her, and 
she knew them, yet she did not tell. I had my suspicions 
all along, and last night I discovered the truth. I would 
have come direct to you, but I feared to meet with a cold 
rebuff, feared that you would think my honest heat was 
but malignant haste. But to-day, when I found that still 
she did not tell, I went to you determined to brave your 
anger for the justice of my cause; but you had ridden 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

to the hills with her and those whom she was sheltering 
here. For the rest I have heard what happened. These 
monsters blazoned what they were according to the coarse- 
ness of their kind ; and, known at last, the Lady Psyche 
has fled, leaving me to suffer the full force of your anger 
— I who have lent my life to build up yours, I that have 
wasted here health, wealth, and talents. Dismiss me if 
you will, but I prophesy your plan will fail when I am 
no longer here to guide you.” 

But the Princess sat unmoved by all the lady’s 
eloquence. 

“ Go ! ” she said coldly. “ Your oath is broken — go ! 
As for this lost lamb ” — she pointed to the baby lying at 
her feet — “ it was our intention to cast it out also, but 
now our mind is changed. We take it to ourself.” 

Lady Blanche laid her hand roughly on Melissa’s 
shoulder and dragged her to her feet. 

“ Come,” she said, and Melissa, casting one last 
imploring look at Ida, which would have moved any heart 
less stony than the heart of the Princess, turned to go. 
Florian gave an exclamation of pity as he watched the 
grief-stricken girl, but before he could move or speak on 
her behalf the door was thrown open, and a messenger, 
a woman-post, rushed in, her face white with fear. 
Breathless with haste, she fell on her knees before the 
Princess and delivered a sealed packet into her hands. 

Ida took the packet in amazement and tore it open. 
It contained two letters, and as she read them the Prince 
watched her closely, wondering what the angry flush which 
spread over her brow and cheek and bosom might mean. 
Her hand shook and her breast heaved as though with 
some great passion. She tried to speak, but utterance 
188 


The Princess 

failed her, and turning abruptly to the Prince she flung 
the letters to him. 

Read,” she said. And the Prince, stooping down 
and picking up the letters, read. The first was from her 
father. 

“ Fair daughter ” (it ran), “ when we sent the Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt, 

We, conscious of what temper you are built, 

Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell 
Into his father’s hands, who has this night, 

You lying close upon his territory, 

Slipt round and in the dark invested you, 

And here he keeps me hostage for his son.” 

The second letter was from the Prince’s father, and 
ran thus : 

“ You have our son : touch not a hair of his head : 

Render him up unscathed : give him your hand : 

Cleave to your contract : tho’ indeed we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man ; 

A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against their lords 
Thro’ all the world, and which might well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your palace down ; 

And we will do it, unless you send us back 
Our son, on the instant, whole.” 

The Prince read thus far, and then he looked up and 
spoke impetuously : 

‘ 4 Indeed it was not to pry on your reserve that I came 
hither — it was in the hope that I might win you for my 
own. I have dreamt of you, longed for you, loved you 
ever since I was a boy, and I cannot cease to desire you, 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

even though you slay me here according to your cruel 
law. And I did not come here wholly unauthorised — 
behold your father’s letter.” 

He dropped on his knees and gave the letter into the 
Princess’s hand. But Ida, in a whirlwind of passion, 
caught it up and tore it across and across and flung the 
pieces, unread, at her feet. Then she burst into a torrent 
of bitter words. 

44 Oh, you have done well — well ! ” she cried. “You 
have acted like a gentleman and like a prince ! You have 
our thanks for all! You look well too in your woman’s 
dress ! You saved my life, but I would sooner have died 
than owe my life to you. I wed with you ! Though you 
were lord of all the world, I would not be your bride. 
Y our offer and yourself are hateful to me — I will not look 
upon you more! ” 

She turned to her bodyguard of women. 

“Here, push them out of doors,” she cried; and at 
her word those eight strong daughters of the plough came 
forward and seized the Prince and Florian. The Prince 
struggled to free himself and speak, but he was powerless 
in those mighty hands, and amidst the mocking laughter 
of the surrounding women he and Florian were borne 
across the hall and down the steps and pushed outside the 
gates. 

The heavy doors clanged- to behind them, and, shamed 
and humiliated, they crossed the street and moved away 
from the scene of their disgrace. They had, however, 
scarcely gone three steps when a sentry’s voice rang out 
in challenge : 

4 4 Who goes there ? ’ ’ 

It was the outposts of the army the Prince’s father 

190 


The Princess 


had brought to rescue his son, and in a few minutes more 
the two stood in the royal presence, where the King sat 
with Gama, his captive guest, and his barons and captains 
and mighty men of war. A great outburst of laughter 
arose at the sight of the Prince and Florian in their 
bedraggled female clothing, and many were the jests and 
gibes the two had to bear. The two kings especially 
enjoyed the joke, now that they knew that the Prince 
was safe, and as soon as he could speak for laughing the 
King turned to his captive. 

44 King, you are free,” he said, still chuckling. 44 We 
did but keep you surety for our son.” Then he turned 
to the Prince. 

44 Go and make yourself a man to fight with men,” 
he roared ; and the Prince and Florian slunk away. 

Outside the King’s tent they learnt that Cyril and 
Psyche were safe within the camp. Cyril had found 
Psyche weeping, and had taken her with him to the King, 
since she dared not return to Ida. She was lying in a 
tent close by, moaning and crying for her child, her little 
Aglaia, whom she feared that she would never see again. 
When Florian and the Prince had changed their clothes 
they went with Cyril to the tent where she was lying, and 
did their best to comfort her. But she would not be 
comforted, even though Cyril vowed on his honour to 
bring her back her child. While they were still with the 
poor woman, trying in vain to console her, a rumour ran 
through the camp that Arac, Ida’s favourite brother, had 
come with another army to rescue his father, and the three 
men were obliged to leave Psyche to the care of the women 
in whose charge she had been placed, and hasten back to 
the King’s tent. 


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My Book of Storks from the Poets 

They found that a council of war was taking place 
there. The Prince’s father was loud in his demands that 
the contract made so long ago between his son and Ida 
should be fulfilled. But when the Prince entered Gama 
turned to him. 

44 1 fear you spent a stormy time with our strange 
girl,” he said, 44 and yet they tell me that you love her 
still? I cannot compel her to obedience. If you would 
win her you must fight for her in truth. What say you ; 
do you still desire her? Is it to be peace or war? ” 

44 Not war, if it te possible to prevent it, sir,” said 
the Prince. 44 She would hate me even more than she 
does now — and with reason. It is her love that I desire, 
and she would not love me if she were brought to me in 
chains. Not war, sir, whatever may befall! ” 

44 Tut, tut, boy ! You know not what you say,” cried 
the Prince’s father roughly. 44 Man is the hunter, woman 
is his game — and there is nothing in all the world so dear 
to them as he who does the thing they dare not do. Dash 
in and win her, boy ! Take her by force. ’Twas so I 
won your mother.” 

44 Nay, sir, Ida is not so. She must be won with wiser 
curbs,” answered the Prince. 44 Ida would not prize the 
soldier, for there is nothing in the world she dare not do 
herself. Not war, I pray you — lest I lose all.” 

King Gama turned to his host, who was growling 
surlily at his son’s reply. 

44 The boy says well,” he said. 44 He seems a gracious 
and a gallant Prince. I would he had our daughter. Let 
him ride back with me to Arac’s lines and talk with Arac. 
Perhaps between us we may build some plan.” 

The old King was loath to let his son go. He would 

192 


The Princess 

rather have made war at once, and plucked the Princess — 
a wilful, spoilt child, he called her — from her nest by 
force. But at last he gave a reluctant consent to the 
Prince’s pleadings ; and so the Prince and King Gama, 
accompanied by Florian and Cyril, rode away from the 
camp to the place where Arac had halted his army. 

King Gama’s three sons rode out to meet their father 
as he approached his own lines in the early morning. They 
were three great, strong men, but Arac was the strongest 
of them all. The Prince thought that there was a look 
of Ida about him, and he took an immediate liking for the 
great, powerful fellow. 

Arac lost no time in coming to the point. 

“We must settle up this question of your troth,” he 
said to the Prince. “ Ida flies too high, but, right or 
wrong, I stand upon her side. She made me swear it by 
candlelight by some saint or other. I forget the name — 
but still I swore. She will not marry you. You must 
waive your claim to her hand, or else the foughten field 
must decide it, whether my father wills it or no.” 

The Prince did not answer for a moment or two. He 
felt he could not give up all hope of gaining Ida for his 
bride some day, and yet he hesitated to declare for sense- 
less war. While he hesitated one of Ida’s brothers said 
in a sneering tone : 

“ Like to like, I see. The woman’s garment hid a 
woman’s heart ! ” 

The taunt fired the Prince, and he answered sharply : 

“Let war decide it then, here and now! We are 
three to three.” 

“Three to three! ” cried the third brother. “And 
our sister’s honour involved in the quarrel ! Nay, for 

193 


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honour’s sake, there must be fifty on a side, at least, if the 
question is to be settled that way.” 

“ As you will,” said the Prince rather bitterly. “ It 
will have to be for honour, if at all, since if we fail we fail, 
and if we win we still fail, for she will not keep her com- 
pact, whatever may betide.” 

“ Nay, then, but she shall,” cried Arac with an oath. 

4 4 We will send to her mighty reasons why she should keep 
her compact. I will send to her now, and you shall have 
her answer before we fight.” 

Gama cried out in dismay when he understood what 
his sons had arranged to do, but they paid no heed to his 
protestations, and since there seemed no more to say the 
Prince and his two friends rode back to their own camp 
and broke the news of the forthcoming battle to the 
Prince’s father. The poor old King was overcome with 
grief and anger when he heard what his son intended to 
do. He swore that he would not allow him to tilt in the 
tourney. He himself, old though he was, would take his 
place, he said. His life was of less value than his heir’s. 
But his lords and captains convinced him that this was 
impossible, and he was obliged to let his son fight as it 
was arranged. Then the captains and knights drew lots 
as to which of them should have the honour of taking part 
in the battle. The lists were made up, and all that morn- 
ing heralds rode backwards and forwards between the two 
camps. Towards noon a letter from Arac was brought 
to the Prince. It contained Ida’s answer to her brother’s 
letter, -and the Prince read her words with a beating 
heart. 

Ida promised to abide by the result of the battle, 
whatever might befall. 


194 


The Princess 

“ I will abide the end, whatever it may be,” she wrote. 
“ But you will not fail, I know you will not fail. Fight, 
and fight well, but do not take his life. He risked it for 
my own, and his mother lives to grieve for him. I would 
not have you harm him ! ” 

The Prince’s heart leapt up as he read those words. 
4 4 Take not his life.” Was it possible that the Princess 
cared for him a little, however small that care might be? 
Heartened up by the letter, he went to the king and bade 
him farewell ; then he and his knights-at-arms rode out 
to the place where the tournament was to be held. 

For many hours the battle raged fiercely. The knights 
on either side fought well and bravely, and many were the 
deeds of valour performed that day. All the soldiers from 
the two camps had gathered together to watch the mighty 
fray, and from the battlements of the college, Ida, sur- 
rounded by her women, stood and watched the issue of 
the day. In her arms she held little Aglaia, Psyche’s baby 
girl, whom the Princess intended to adopt as her own 
child. 

To the Prince all the battle seemed like a dream. 
Men around him fell and rose, and fell and rose again. 
He and Arac, the giant of his side, met and fought to- 
gether all the while, each seeking the other as his worthiest 
adversary. The Prince fought with great skill and 
bravery, but he was like a child beside his giant opponent, 
and at the last he was overborne. Then there arose a 
great cry from all around : 

“ The Prince is slain, the Prince is slain! ” And at 
the same instant the trumpets blew and the tournament 
was stopped. 

The old King ran in amongst the knights and flung 
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himself upon his son’s body, crying out with grief, while 
the Lady Psyche, who had been standing at his side all 
through the battle, followed him on to the field. She was 
still half dazed by grief for her little lost Aglaia and was 
scarcely conscious of what she was doing. 

Ida, seeing that the fight was over, descended from the 
roof, and with Psyche’s baby still clasped in her arms, she 
led her maidens across the plain until she came to the place 
where her brothers lay on the battlefield, all wounded, 
though not very grievously. She pressed their hands and 
thanked them for their aid. They and their knights should 
be taken to the college and nursed back to health and 
strength again, she told them. Then she came to where 
the Prince was lying, and when she saw his still, white 
face, and his grief-stricken father bending over him, a sigh 
broke from her. A shadow passed over her face and she 
turned a little pale. 

“ He saved my life : my brother slew him for it,” she 
said, hardly knowing that she spoke the words aloud. 

The old King heard her. Silently he drew from the 
Prince’s neck the little picture and the lock of hair which 
he had always worn. And as the Princess gazed at them 
she knew that the Prince had really spoken the truth 
when he said that he loved her and had not merely been 
paying her empty compliments, and a pang of remorse 
and pity shot through her heart. Her iron will began to 
soften, and setting little Aglaia on the ground she knelt 
down beside the Prince, laying her hand gently on his 
brow. 

“ Sire, he is not dead,” she said. “ He still lives. 
Let me have him with my brothers here in my own 
palace. We will nurse him back to life.” 


196 


The Princess 

At those words, “ He lives,” the King was filled with 
new hope. He and Ida bent together over the Prince’s 
body, and the dark hair of the Princess and the grey locks 
of the old man were mingled as they knelt side by side. 

Psyche, who had been standing quietly by, had never 
taken her eyes from Aglaia since Ida had brought her on 
the scene, and now she began to steal silently towards the 
little one. 

“ Mine, mine ! She is not yours, she is mine ! ” she 
cried out suddenly. “Give me my child!” and she 
stretched out her arms imploringly towards her baby. 

Ida turned to look at her, pride and scorn flashing from 
her dark eyes. But Psyche heeded not her wrath. 
Kneeling before her, she begged with open arms that her 
baby might be given back to her. Cyril, who was lying 
close by, wounded, too, raised himself on his elbow and 
added his entreaties to the poor mother’s. Ida was more 
moved by the events of the day than she would admit, and 
she could not resist the appeal from the wounded man. 
She took the child up in her arms and laid it in Cyril’s 
hands. 

“ Take it, sir,” she said gently, and Cyril turned to- 
wards Psyche, who sprang forward with cries of joy and 
pressed her little one closely in her arms, shedding tears 
of happiness, and uttering little tender words of mother 
love. Then, when she had assured herself that her child 
was safe and well, Psyche turned to the Princess once 
more and begged for her forgiveness. 

“ Say one soft word to me before I go,” she said, but 
Ida turned away and would not speak. 

Then Arac, who was lying close by, spoke to his sister 
roughly. 


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“ Upon my faith,” he cried, “ you blame men for ill- 
using you, but it is you who wrong yourselves. It is the 
woman who is hard upon the woman ! Come, I am your 
warrior, I and mine have fought your battle — grant a grace 
to me. Take her hand and kiss her ere she goes.” 

But Ida fixed her eyes stubbornly upon the ground 
and would not say a word. Her father came and pleaded 
with her, but it was all in vain. Not one kind word would 
she say to poor weeping Psyche. 

At last the Prince’s father rose and spoke indignantly. 

“You half fooled me into letting you have my son to 
nurse,” he said. “ I thought he might have wished it so 
himself, but you are so hard I will not risk it. I think 
the rougher hand of man will be the safer.” And he 
summoned his stretcher-bearers imperiously. 

“ Take up the Prince and carry him to his tent,” he 
commanded. 

But Ida suddenly turned and held out her arms to her 
erstwhile friend. 

“ Oh, Psyche come hither, embrace me quick,” she 
cried. 4 4 Make reconciliation sure with one that cannot 
keep her mind an hour! Kiss and be friends — I want 
forgiveness, too.” 

She embraced Psyche tenderly ; then she turned to 
the old King. 

“ Let me have your son,” she pleaded. “ I will nurse 
him and wait upon him like my own brother.” And the 
King yielded to her entreaties and gave orders that the 
Prince was to be carried into Ida’s palace. 

Then the college, which had been for so long barred 
to men, was thrown open as a great hospital. All the 
wounded men from either side were carried in, and the 
198 


The Princess 

girl students turned their gentle hands to dressing wounds 
and tending the sick. Melissa took Florian under her 
special charge. Psyche divided her attentions between 
her little one and Cyril, who had indeed done as he had 
promised and given her baby back to her again, since it 
was from his hands that she had received Aglaia. Ida 
herself waited upon the Prince, who was the most seriously 
wounded of all the combatants. Indeed it seemed that 
he was too seriously injured ever to recover, and for a time 
all feared that he would die. 

But he did not die. One night, as Ida was watching 
beside him, he seemed to recover consciousness a little. 
He fixed his eyes upon the Princess, and as she bent 
towards him to hear what he would say he whispered 
faintly : 

“ If you are Ida, indeed I ask you nothing. But if 
you be, as I think, some sweet dream, I pray you to fulfil 
yourself. Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die ! ” 

The Princess hesitated a moment, held back by her 
pride. Then suddenly all her old hard self slipped from 
her, and she realised that she loved this man with all her 
heart and soul. With a low cry she stooped towards him 
and let him clasp her in his arms, while her lips met his in 
one passionate kiss. 

And whether it was that her kiss saved the Prince, or 
whether he would have recovered any way, the fact 
remains that from that hour he gradually recovered 
strength until at last he was pronounced to be out of 
danger. 

This is nearly the end of the story. Florian married 
Melissa, Cyril married Psyche, and the Prince’s wooing, 
which had been so rough and stormy, went well from that 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

time onward, though Ida demurred a little when he asked 
her to be his wife. 

“You cannot really love me,” she said tremulously. 
But the Prince looked up at her with shining eyes, and 
said tenderly and reverently : 

“ Indeed I love thee. Come, 

Yield thyself up : my hopes and thine are one. 
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself ; 

Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.” 

And the Princess, laying aside her pride and wilfulness, 
stooped down and laid her hands in his. 


200 


Young Lochinvar 

O young Lochinvar is come out of the West ! 

Through all the wide Border his steed is the best ; 

And save his good broadsword he weapon had none ; 
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar ! 

B UT everybody did not think so ! The father and 
mother of the lady whom the young knight loved 
thought that there were a great many gentlemen 
preferable as suitors for their daughter. And though Lord 
Lochinvar had wooed his fair Ellen for many a long day, 
yet they would have nothing to do with him. Sternly 
Ellen’s father refused the young man’s suit; and at last, 
in order to make sure that his daughter should not marry 
him, he betrothed her to another gentleman of his 
acquaintance, who, however desirable he might have been 
in her parents’ eyes, seemed to Ellen a very poor lover 
after young Lochinvar. But in those days a maiden had 
very little say in the choosing of her husband. If she 
did not approve of her father’s choice her parent was quite 
at liberty to lock her up in a dungeon and starve her into 
submission, and however rebellious a daughter might be 
at first, she usually gave in after a few weeks’ imprison- 
ment on bread and water ! 

Young Lord Lochinvar was far away from Netherby 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Hall, the home of fair Ellen, when he heard the news of 
her betrothal ; but, having heard it, he did not linger 
long. For the report said that Ellen was to be married 
at once to her future husband, whether she would or no, 
and young Lochinvar was not the man to stand idly by 
and let his love be taken from him. If Ellen had really 
forgotten him, if she had ceased to love him, and really 
wished to marry this new suitor of hers, Eord Lochinvar 
had no wish to carry off a maiden against her will, and he 
would let her go. But if she was being forced into this mar- 
riage with a man who was neither brave nor handsome — 
why, then, maybe Lord Lochinvar might have something 
to say about it ! And armed only with his broadsword, 
he bridled his horse and sprang to the saddle, and started 
off at once for the home of his ladylove. 

On and on he rode, caring not for stone nor thicket, 
stopping not for any obstacle. He swam his horse 
through the Esk river where ford there was none, and 
never drew rein until he alighted at the gate of Netherby 
Hall. And he w r as not a moment too soon. Ellen had 
yielded at last to her parents’ stern Commands, and even 
as Lord Lochinvar sprang from his charger, her craven 
bridegroom was waiting to lead her to the altar. 

Boldly young Lochinvar forced his way into the hall, 
where the whole Netherby clan w^as gathered for Ellen’s 
wedding. The poor bridegroom said never a word as his 
bride’s discarded suitor pressed towards him through the 
crowed of wedding guests. He was cowardly and nervous, 
and he did not like the look of young Lochinvar at all. 
He stayed behind in the background, and it was left to 
Ellen’s father to come forward and demand of this 
uninvited guest the reason for his presence. 

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Young Lochinvar 

“ Come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to 
dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar? ” asked the 
bride’s father, with his hand on his sword, and he tried to 
bar the way in front of the young man. Lord Lochin- 
var’s fame as a reckless and fearless young gallant was 
spread abroad, and there was no knowing what his 
intentions might be. 

But Lochinvar had a deep-laid scheme in his mind, 
and he had no desire to provoke a quarrel thus early in 
the proceedings. So he answered the question evasively. 

“ Long have I wooed your daughter,” he said, “but 
you have denied my suit, and though love may swell like 
the Solway, yet it will sometimes ebb like its tide. I have 
come to lead but one measure, to drink but one cup of 
wine with my lost love. There are maidens in Scotland, 
as lovely even as Ellen, who would gladly be bride to Lord 
Lochinvar! ” And he flung his head back proudly, and 
glanced round the hall with a scornful smile. 

The bride’s father looked doubtfully at his visitor. He 
did not wish to anger him more than was needful. Lord 
Lochinvar was rather a terrible person when his anger 
was aroused, and as it seemed as though he had come out 
of mere reckless bravado he thought it best to humour 
the young man. He signed to his daughter to bring the 
cup of wine, and tremblingly Ellen came forward, bear- 
ing the goblet in her hands. Before she gave it to her old 
lover she raised it to her own lips and kissed it, as was the 
custom in those days when offering wine to an honoured 
guest. 

Lochinvar took the goblet from her hands, and as he 
did so, he gazed deep into her eyes with a look which made 
Ellen blush and sigh and cast her eyes to the ground, 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

while a tear trembled on her long lashes. The young 
knight drank the wine and flung down the cup, then, 
before the bride’s mother, who was hovering anxiously 
near, could intervene, he took the maiden’s soft hand 
in his. 

44 Now tread we a measure,” said young Lochinvar. 

He was so tall and manly and stately, and she was so 
lovely and sweet and graceful, that never before had such 
a handsome couple danced together in that old castle hall. 
The bride’s father stood by fuming, yet not daring to 
interrupt lest he should provoke a quarrel with his trouble- 
some guest. Ellen’s mother stood beside him, watching 
her daughter uneasily. She, too, wished that the marriage 
ceremony was safely over, but she could see nothing that 
she could do at present. As for the bridegroom, he could 
only stand stupidly by, dangling his bonnet and plume. 
Much as he hated seeing his bride in the arms of her old 
lover, he had not the pluck to bid Lord Lochinvar begone 
about his business, as any man worthy of the name would 
surely have done. And the bridesmaids, who stood to- 
gether in a little whispering group at one end of the 
hall, .watched the dancers admiringly, and said amongst 
themselves : 

44 ’Twere better by far to have matched our fair cousin 
with young Lochinvar! ” 

On and on the couple danced, and now they had 
reached the far end of the long hall. The door stood open. 
Just outside was Lochinvar ’s charger, waiting patiently 
for his master’s return. Lord Lochinvar looked down 
once more, deep into Ellen’s eyes, and what he saw there 
satisfied him. She was not marrying for love the craven 
bridegroom who could stand by and see his bride in the 
204 



‘“They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!’ cried young Lochinvar.” 






Young Lochinvar 

arms of another man on her wedding morning. What 
love she had to give was still for him, who had loved her 
so tenderly and truly, and who was willing to lay down his 
life for her sake, if need be. 

One touch of her hand, one quick whispered word in 
her ear, and then, before the startled guests could inter- 
fere, before the dull-witted bridegroom could even realise 
what was happening, young Lochinvar had caught Ellen 
up in his arms, and had sprung with her across the thres- 
hold of the hall. Lightly he swung his fair burden on to 
the horse’s back — lightly he sprang to the saddle in front 
of her. 

“She is won! We are gone — over bank, bush and 
scaur! They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!” cried 
young Lochinvar. 

There was shouting and confusion, and bustling and 
hurrying that day in Netherby Hall ! Horses were 
hastily saddled and bridled, and guests who had come to 
witness a wedding ceremony mounted their steeds and 
gave chase to a runaway bride. They rode and rode, and 
scoured the countryside for miles around, but it was all 
in vain ! None could ride so fast and well as young 
Lochinvar, and before night fell he was safe in his own 
country with the maiden he had won so gallantly for his 
bride. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 

Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? 


205 


Enoch Arden 


M ORE than a hundred years ago three children 
played together on the beach of a little fishing 
town. One was Annie Lee, the prettiest little 
damsel in the port; one was the rich miller’s only son, 
Philip Ray ; and the other was Enoch Arden, a brown- 
faced, sturdy, masterful little fellow, the orphan child of 
a rough, seafaring man. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff on the beach, 
and in this the children played at housekeeping. Annie 
was mistress, and Enoch and Philip took it in turns to be 
master. Sometimes the two boys would quarrel about 
their turns, and when this happened Enoch, always the 
stronger, would get the better of it. 

“ This is my house, and Annie is my little wife,” he 
would cry, and Philip, his blue eyes full of angry tears, 
would shriek out : 

“I hate you, Enoch! ” Then the little housewife, 
a loving, peaceable little soul, would weep for company 
and beg them not to quarrel. 

“ I will be wife to both of you,” she would say per- 
suasively, and so, for the time being, the feud would be 
healed. 

Time passed on, and as the two lads grew to manhood 
each fixed his love upon Annie Lee. But it was Enoch 
whom Annie loved the best, though she was always kind 


Enoch Arden 

and gentle to Philip, who was shy and reserved and never 
dared to give expression to his feelings for the girl. And 
Enoch felt that Annie loved him. Made strong by hope, 
he worked hard and saved his earnings until he had enough 
money to buy himself a boat and make a home for Annie, 
a neat little, nest-like cottage, half way up the narrow, 
straggling street that climbed towards the mill. 

One golden autumn evening all the young people of the 
village had gone nutting to the hazel woods that lay behind 
the town. Philip’s father was sick, and Philip stayed 
behind a little later than the others to tend to him. And 
when at last he was able to leave him and go after the nut- 
ting party he came unexpectedly across Enoch and Annie, 
sitting hand in hand in lover-like attitude. They were 
too absorbed in each other to notice the intruder, and with 
a groan Philip slipped away. He had always feared that 
Annie loved Enoch, and now he knew for certain, and, 
creeping into a dark hollow of the wood, he flung himself 
face downwards on the ground. The hour he spent by 
himself was a very bitter one. But he was brave at heart, 
and when he arose and returned home, outwardly he had 
conquered all traces of his sorrow, though in his breast he 
carried a bitter longing unguessed and undreamt of by 
those around him. Yet he did not break his friendship 
with Enoch and Annie, and when at length the lovers 
were wed he was the first to wish them happiness. 

For seven long years happiness lived and reigned 
supreme in the little fishing cottage. Husband and wife 
loved each other dearly, and their love was made stronger 
and more enduring by the birth of two little ones, first a 
daughter, then a son. Enoch’s trade prospered as well as 
his love, and he put his savings by with a double sense of 

207 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

their importance now that he had his children’s future to 
look to. He was determined to save enough money to 
send them to school when they were old enough, and so 
give them a better bringing-up than he had ever had. 

But this good fortune was not to last for ever. One 
day Enoch had a bad accident. He slipped and fell from 
the mast of a ship which was lying at anchor in a harbour 
town a few miles distant, breaking a limb in the fall. 
While he was lying helpless away from home his wife bore 
him another son, a little, sickly, delicate baby, and so a 
further inroad was made upon his savings. Then — for 
misfortunes never come singly — another man set up a 
fishing boat in the village and snatched away some of his 
trade ; so it was no wonder that Enoch, lying ill and help- 
less so far from his home and dear ones, grew a little 
gloomy and miserable. The outlook was so dark that it 
was enough to make the most hopeful man a little gloomy. 

But Enoch was a God-fearing man, and in his hour 
of darkness and doubt he did not forget to pray for help 
and guidance. And even as he prayed it seemed as though 
his prayer was answered. The master of the vessel on 
which Enoch had met with his accident came to see him, 
and offered him the place of boatswain on his ship. The 
boat was bound for China in a few weeks’ time, and, 
knowing Enoch to be an upright man and a clever sailor, 
the captain begged him to sign on with him for that one 
voyage at least. 

Enoch took the man’s coming as an answer to his 
prayer, and gratefully accepted the offer. It would mean 
good money to him, and after he had made one or two 
voyages he would have saved enough to make the future 
sufficiently sure for his wife and children. 

208 


Enoch Arden 

As soon as he was well he hastened back to his home. 
Annie was up and about again, though she was still weak 
and delicate. It was the first time Enoch had seen his 
little son, and he took the sickly, puny baby tenderly 
into his arms, fondling him and praising him, and cheering 
his wife’s anxious forebodings about the delicate child. 
He had not the heart to tell her of his purpose that first 
night at home ; but the next morning he broke the news 
as gently as he could, and told her of the plans he had 
made for her while he was away. He had determined to 
sell his boat and his fishing-tackle, and with the purchase 
money to buy enough goods and stores to set Annie up 
in a little shop of her own. It would not be for long, he 
told her cheerfully. If he made one or two prosperous voy- 
ages he would have earned enough money to buy a bigger 
and better boat ; and then he could settle down in his native 
town, and bring up his children in peace and comfort. 

Poor Annie wept bitterly when she heard of Enoch’s 
coming departure, and did all she could to persuade him 
not to go. But Enoch had made up his mind, and when 
once he had made up his mind it was difficult to turn him 
from his purpose. He could not bear the thought of 
Annie’s ever coming to want ; and it seemed to him that 
if he stayed on in this little town, with his trade diminish- 
ing day by day, they would be very poor indeed before 
many months had passed. So he stuck to his determination, 
and made his preparations for sailing on the appointed day. 

The little sitting-room that looked out upon the street 
he fitted up as a store for Annie; and right up to the 
very last day he was working at it, fitting and hammering 
the shelves, and packing away the goods that he had 
bought. It was late at night when he ascended at last to 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

his little bedroom ; and he slept heavily till dawn, for he 
was tired out with the work of the last few days. 

At last came the sorrowful moment of farewell. 
Annie never knew afterwards how she bore herself 
through that terrible morning. She had a presentiment 
that she would never see Enoch’s face again ; but when 
she clung to him, weeping and trembling, and told him of 
her fears, he laughed at her gently, and told her to borrow 
a spyglass from a neighbour and watch at her window 
at a certain time a few days hence. 

“ The ship I sail on will pass by here,” he said. “We 
shall come close in to shore, and you may be sure that I 
shall come on deck. Look out for me and see my face 
again, and then you may laugh at all your fears.” 

Then in a graver voice he said tenderly : 

“ Annie, my girl, cheer up. I must go, but you will 
keep everything ship-shape till I come again. You need 
not fear for me — or, if you fear, cast your care upon God. 
The sea is His, and He made it, you know. Wherever I 
go, I cannot go from Him.” 

Then he embraced his little ones and kissed them good- 
bye ; but when Annie would have awakened the babe, who 
was sleeping now after a restless, wakeful night, he 
stayed her. 

“ Do not wake him,” he said. “ He is too young to 
remember me,” and he stooped down and kissed the little 
fellow in his cot as he lay asleep. And Annie clipped a 
tiny curl from her baby’s forehead and gave it to her 
husband. Enoch cast his strong arms about his grieving 
wife and held her closely to him for a moment. Then 
he hastily caught up his bundle, waved his hand, and went 
his way. 


210 


Enoch Arden 

When the day came for Enoch’s ship to pass Annie 
borrowed a glass and watched for him. But it was all in 
vain. Perhaps her eyes were too dimmed with tears to 
see, or her hand too tremulous to hold the glass steady. 
But, however it was, she saw him not, and while Enoch 
stood on the deck waving, the moment passed, and the 
vessel was swept away from her sight. 

Then began a time for Annie of loneliness and waiting. 
The little shop did not prosper as it should have done. 
She was too shy and gentle to barter her stores success- 
fully, and often she sold her goods below their cost price. 
For some years she gained a scanty sustenance for herself 
and her children ; but gradually she began to realise that 
she would never be able to make the shop pay. Day by 
day she became poorer and poorer; and as still no news 
came from Enoch her heart, grew heavier and heavier, 
and the future loomed very dark and gloomy before her 
anxious eyes. 

And now, to add to her troubles, the third child, sickly 
from its birth, began to grow sicklier. Annie cared for 
it with all a mother’s love, but her efforts were of no use. 
The little one grew ever weaker, until at last, almost 
before she was aware of it, this child had faded away 
and died. 

Philip had not looked upon Annie’s face since Enoch 
had gone. His love for her had grown stronger with the 
years, and he felt that he could not bear to look upon her 
because of the mad desire and longing that arose in his 
heart whenever he saw her sweet face. But now, in her 
grief for her lost baby, he felt that it would be unkind to 
stop away any longer ; and so, a few days after the little 
one was buried, he went to the tiny shop, and, passing 

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through it, stopped to knock at the door of the inner 
room. 

No one answered his knock, and opening the door 
very gently he stepped inside. Annie was sitting there, 
weeping bitterly, with her face bowed in her hands. 
Philip scarcely knew what to do or say to comfort her; 
but he sat down beside her and tried to soothe her grief. 

“ I have come to talk to you of Enoch,” he said 
gently, “ and of what I know he wished. You knew why 
he went away and left you lonely. It was not for pleasure, 
or because he wanted to see the world. It was because 
he wished to make the wherewithal to give his little ones 
a better bringing-up than his has been. When he comes 
again he will be vexed to think that so much precious time 
has been lost. Even in his grave it would grieve him to 
know that his children were running wild for want of 
teaching. So, Annie — we have known each other all our 
lives, so surely I may ask you this. I am rich and well-to- 
do, and I beg you, for the love you bear Enoch and his 
children, to let me put the boy and girl to school. Enoch 
shall repay me when he comes again, if you wish it.” 

Annie turned her face away, for his kindness over- 
whelmed her. 

“ I cannot look you in the face. I seem so foolish 
and upset,” she answered brokenly. “When you came 
in, my sorrow broke me down, and now your kindness 
breaks me down. Enoch lives, I know that Enoch lives 
— and when he comes again he will repay you. That is, 
he will repay you the money — kindness such as yours can 
never be repaid.” 

“Then you will let me, Annie?” said Philip; and 
Annie lifted her face to his for a reply and turned her 
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Enoch Arden 

swimming eyes upon him. Then she caught his hand, 
wringing it passionately, and calling down a blessing upon 
his head, she left the little room. And Philip left the 
cottage happier than he had been for many a day. 

So Philip put the boy and girl to school, bought them 
all the books they needed, and in every possible way made 
himself their guardian. He would not call much upon 
Annie, for he feared to make her the talk of the gossiping 
little port ; but he showered down kindnesses upon her 
children, and often sent her gifts by them — fruit and 
flowers from his garden, rabbits and game from the 
down, and sometimes, on pretext of its being especially 
finely ground, a bag of flour from the mill. The two 
children grew to love Philip dearly. “ Father Philip,” 
they called him, and were as much at home in his house 
as in their own. Whenever they saw him coming they 
would run to meet him with cries of joy. Enoch appeared 
to them only a shadowy vision now. They were so young 
when he went away that they could hardly remember him. 
No news or word had come from him since the day that 
he left, and Annie, full of fears for his safety, could 
hardly bear to speak of him even to her children, and so 
the remembrance of him died away in their hearts. 

So ten long years passed by, ten years of anxious wait- 
ing for Annie, during which no sign or letter came from 
Enoch. Annie was beginning to lose heart at last. It 
seemed almost certain that his ship must have been lost, 
and yet something seemed to tell her that he was still 
alive. Her neighbours had long since given up hope for 
him, and Philip, too, although he tried not to think it, 
could not help feeling sure that Enoch must be dead. 
And one day, when he had taken Annie and the two 

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children he had virtually adopted to the woods nutting, 
he spoke to Annie and told her what he thought. 

It was seldom that Annie went on these expeditions 
with her children, but to-day they had persuaded her to 
do so, since it was such a beautiful autumn afternoon. 
But she soon grew tired, and while the children went far- 
ther into the woods to search for nuts, she and Philip sat 
down on a fallen tree to rest. For a little while there 
was silence between them, and then at last Philip’s heart 
overflowed at the sight of the pale, sad face of the woman 
he loved, and he burst out into passionate speech. 

“ Why should you kill yourself and make them doubly 
orphans?” he cried. “The ship is lost. It is beyond 
all hope, against all chance, that Enoch, who left you ten 
long years ago, should still be living. Let me speak, 
Annie. I grieve to see you poor and wanting help ; and 
yet I cannot help you as I wish, unless — unless Per- 
haps you know what I would say; women are so quick 
at these things. Annie, I want you for my wife. Let 
me be a father to your children. They love me as a 
father, and I love them as though they were my own. I 
believe that if you were my wife I could make you happy. 
Think about it, Annie. I am rich, and we have known 
each other all our lives, and I have loved you longer than 
you know.” 

Annie turned to him and answered him slowly and 
tenderly. 

“You have been as God’s good angel in our house,” 
she said gently. “ God bless you for it and reward you 
with a wife who will be happier than myself. I can never 
love you as I loved Enoch.” 

“ I am content to be loved a little after Enoch,” Philip 

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Enoch Arden 

said wistfully, and Annie" gave a little cry, half of terror, 
half of sorrow. 

“ Oh, wait a little longer,” she said pleadingly. “ If 
Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come! Yet, dear 
Philip, wait a year. A year is not so long — oh, Philip, 
wait a year.” 

“ As I have w.aited all my life,” said Philip sadly, “ I 
may well wait a little longer.” 

“You have my promise,” cried Annie. “I am 
bound. If Enoch comes not in a year I will marry you. 
You have my promise; will you not bide a year? ” 

And Philip answered gravely : 

“ I will bide my year.” 

Yet, for he was a gentle, chivalrous gentleman at 
heart, he would not hold her to her promise. When he 
parted from her that night at the cottage door he took her 
hand and held it a moment, saying gently : 

“Annie, when I spoke to you just now it was your 
hour of weakness, and I was wrong to take advantage 
of you. I am always bound to you, but you are not bound 
to me — you are free.” But Annie, honourable too, would 
not thus accept her freedom. 

“ I am bound,” she answered, the tears coming once 
more into her eyes. “ Come to me in a year.” And in 
a year Philip came. 

“Is it a year? ” she asked unbelievingly, shrinking 
away from him slightly. It seemed to her that never had 
a year sped so fast. Philip looked at her wistfully, and 
his voice was grave as he answered : 

“Yes, it is a year. The nuts be ripe once more. 
Come and see.” 

But Annie begged him to grant her one more month ; 

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and Philip, his eyes full of that lifelong hunger and his 
voice shaking a little, said bravely : 

“ Take your own time, Annie, take your own time.” 

Annie could have wept with pity for him. Yet she 
held him on delay ingly, inventing one excuse after 
another, till another half-year had passed away. Philip 
would not press her, would not urge her; but his face 
grew pale and careworn, and Annie could not help notic- 
ing the change in him. Her heart reproached her for 
keeping him so long in suspense, and yet she could not 
bring herself to tell him that she would be his wife. 

“ Oh, if I could but know if Enoch is alive or dead ! ” 
she thought despairingly, and worried over the matter 
night and day. 

One night Annie could not sleep, and as she lay toss- 
ing restlessly upon her bed she prayed earnestly that God 
would give her a sign. And then, unable to endure her 
anxiety any longer, she struck a light and drew the Bible 
towards her, opening it wide and setting her finger on 
a text without looking, hoping to find a sign. Then, with 
an inward prayer for guidance, she looked to see the words 
upon which she had laid her finger. 

“ 4 Under the palm tree,’ ” she read, and with a moan 
she closed the book. There was no meaning for her there, 
she thought, and, putting out the light, she fell into an 
uneasy sleep. But while she slept she had a dream. She 
dreamt that she saw Enoch sitting under a palm tree, 
while overhead shone a sun of exceeding brightness and 
radiancy. 

“ He is dead,” she thought in her sleep. “ He is 
singing; he is happy. Yonder shines the Sun of 
Righteousness, and these be the palms which the happy 
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Enoch Arden 

people strewing cried: “Hosanna in the Highest!” 
And as these thoughts passed through her mind she 
awoke. 

As soon as she was risen she sent for Philip. 

“I will wed you,” she said. “There is no reason 
why we should not wed.” And Philip caught her to him, 
saying earnestly : 

“ Then, for God’s sake— for both our sakes — if you 
will wed me, let it be at once.” 

So these two were wedded, and the wedding bells 
rang out merrily in the little fishing-town. But at first, 
although her lot was now far removed from care and 
anxiety, Annie was not happy. She could not rid her- 
self of the impression that Enoch was still alive, and that 
one day he would come back to claim her. Philip was 
very patient and gentle with her. Gradually he won her 
trust and confidence, and when at length a little child was 
born to them Annie grew to love her husband dearly — 
not quite so tenderly and passionately as she had once 
loved Enoch, perhaps, but very tenderly and truly all the 
same. 

And so happiness came to the house by the mill. 

And where was Enoch? 

The ship on which he had sailed, The Good Fortune , 
had a prosperous voyage and reached her distant harbour 
safely, where Enoch traded and did well for himself. But 
her homeward voyage was not so prosperous. She was 
delayed by calms and driven out of her course by storms, 
and at last she succumbed to one terrible tempest and 
sank. All on board her perished, saving only Enoch and 
two others, who clung to a broken spar and were finally 
cast up on to a desert shore. 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

There was no lack of food on the island, for such the 
land proved to be ; but it was uninhabited, and as it was 
far out of the course of passing vessels it seemed as 
though the castaways would have to stay there for the 
remainder of their lives. One of the three, a young boy, 
had been severely hurt in the wreck of The Good Fortune. 
He was unable to move hand or foot, and for five years 
he lay helpless in the hut the other two men built for 
him. They could not leave him as long as he was alive, 
but when at last death released him, and they had buried 
him, the other two were free to try to make their escape. 
But Enoch’s companion, in trying to fashion a boat from 
a fallen tree trunk, grew careless of the tropical sun, and 
fell a victim to sunstroke. Enoch, left alone, was power- 
less to do anything to escape, and so he lived on in 
solitude, never seeing a human face or hearing a human 
voice. Day after day he watched the sun rise in the 
morning, watched the blaze grow brighter and brighter 
until noonday, and then saw the great fiery globe decline 
until it sank out of sight beneath the western waters, while 
the stars shone out in the sky, themselves paling later 
before the greater light of the moon. But though he 
watched constantly, often by night and day, he never 
saw a sail. 

Thoughts of his home and family, thoughts of Annie 
and his little ones, rose up in his mind, and he longed 
with a longing unspeakable to be with them again. Once, 
as he sat waiting and watching, the sound of bells seemed 
to be borne to his ears. It sounded to him like the chime 
of the church bells of his own little village pealing as 
though for a wedding, and at the sound he started up 
shuddering, though why he did not know. But it was 
218 


Enoch Arden 

only an illusion, and when the sound had died away he 
found himself alone as ever upon the beautiful, hateful 
island. He gave up hope at last of ever seeing his native 
land again. And then one morning the impossible hap- 
pened. A ship, driven out of her course by contrary 
winds, dropped anchor by the island, and sent a boat 
ashore for fresh water. 

It was so long since Enoch had spoken with anyone 
that he had almost forgotten the human language. But 
as the seamen crowded round him — a shaggy-haired, 
scarcely human-looking figure — the knowledge of his 
speech came back, and he managed to make them under- 
stand. The seamen took him on board their ship and 
gave him clothing, and he told his story in broken, halting 
speech at first, but afterwards with more eloquence as 
the words and phrases came back to his memory. The 
crew were very kind to him after their rough fashion, but 
they did not come from his part of the country, and none 
could tell him the things he most longed to know. 

It seemed to Enoch as though that voyage would 
never come to an end, but it did at last, and one after- 
noon in late autumn the ship put in at the very harbour 
from which he had begun that fateful journey so many 
years ago and landed him upon the shores of his own 
country once again. Before they put him ashore the 
officers and men, full of pity for the poor castaway who 
might find neither home nor friends after his long absence, 
made up a sum of money between them and gave it to 
him, and Enoch accepted it gratefully, for he too dreaded 
what the future might bring. 

After he was put ashore Enoch spoke no word to 
anybody, but set out at once to walk to his own town, 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

to his home — if he still had a home ! The afternoon, 
though chilly, was bright at first, but as the traveller 
drew near to the little fishing port a haze rolled up from 
the sea and it began to drizzle with rain, a drizzle that 
grew thicker as he neared his own town. Enoch walked 
quickly until he reached the narrow winding street where 
his home stood. But then his footsteps faltered and 
hesitated. A great foreboding of calamity fell upon his 
heart, and he crept slowly along until he reached the little 
cottage where he and Annie had been so happy during 
those first years of his married life. And there — it seemed 
as though in confirmation of his fears — no welcoming light 
shone out to meet him, there was no answering voice to 
greet him when he called. The little home stood bare 
and desolate, with a bill of sale posted in the empty 
window. Enoch turned away with a sudden chilliness 
round his heart. 

“They are dead,” he thought; and he crept slowly 
down to the wharf, to a little humble tavern that he 
knew of. 

The landlord who had kept the tavern was dead, but 
his widow, Miriam Lane, managed it, and though it had 
fallen upon ill days yet there was still a bed for wander- 
ing men. Here Arden rested that night, and for many 
days and nights after; and because he was so changed 
and worn by hardship Miriam did not recognise him. 
When he had gone away he had been a tall, strong man 
in the prime of life ; now he was a bent, white-haired, 
feeble wanderer, grown old long before his time. 

Miriam was a talkative person, and very soon Arden 
had learnt all the news of the little town, including his 
own story. He heard of the death of his baby, of the 


Enoch Arden 

struggle Annie had had to make ends meet, of how 
Philip had come to her rescue and put the children to 
school, how he had wooed her, so long, so patiently, and 
how at last, after long years had passed and there seemed 
no hope of Enoch ever returning, Annie had given a slow 
and reluctant consent. 

What the wanderer must have felt when he heard 
from the lips of his garrulous landlady of the death of 
all his hope no one ever knew. No shadow of any emotion 
passed over his face. Anyone watching him might have 
thought he felt the tale less than the teller. But when 
the landlady had gone away a great longing came upon 
him to see Annie’s face again. 

“ If I might but look upon her once more and know 
that she is happy! ” he cried out to himself; and the 
longing haunted him until at last, when the dull Novem- 
ber evening had settled down upon the little town, he 
stole out and made his way to the top of the hill on which 
the mill stood. A light from one of the house windows 
streamed out into the foggy night, and, allured by it as 
a bird of passage is allured by the light of a beacon, Enoch 
went towards it. 

Philip’s dwelling fronted on the road, but behind it 
was a little garden, and into this garden Enoch passed. 
He stole up in the shadow of the wall, and then, sheltered 
behind a great yew tree, he looked at the scene within 
the room. 

Dainty china cups and burnished silver shone on the 
table, a cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, and at 
one side of the fire Philip was sitting with his baby on 
his knee. Bending over his chair was a girl, a tall, fair- 
haired maiden who might have been a later Annie. In 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

her hand she held a length of ribbon from which dangled 
an ivory ring with which she was tempting the little one. 
The baby caught at it and missed it, and, crowing with 
joy, caught at it again, while the girl and her adoptive 
father laughed heartily at the fun. On the other side of 
the hearth sat Annie, smiling tenderly at her husband 
and her baby, and now and again stooping to speak with 
the sturdy boy who sat on the floor beside her. 

When the dead man come to life beheld his wife who 
was his wife no longer, and saw the babe — hers, yet not 
his — upon its father’s knee, when he saw all the warmth 
and peace and happiness, and his own children grown so 
strong and beautiful, and Philip sitting there in his own 
place, lord of his rights and the undisputed possessor of 
his children’s love, he staggered and shook and clung to 
the branch of the yew tree for support. Then, in terror 
lest his emotions should overpower him and he should 
send out a bitter cry, which in one moment would shatter 
all the happiness of the woman he loved, he turned and 
fled, even in his agony remembering to tread softly lest 
the shingle pathway should grate beneath his feet. But 
when at last he had reached the garden gate and had 
closed it behind him, he flung himself face downward upon 
the ground in the darkness of the night and prayed for 
strength to keep his secret. 

44 She must never know — she must never know! ” he 
whispered with dry lips. 44 Uphold me, Father, in my 
loneliness ! Aid me, give me strength never to let her 
know ! ” 

He lay for a long time prostrate upon the cold, wet 
ground, then he rose and tottered back to the inn beside 
the wharf, while through and through his weary brain 

222 


Enoch Arden 

hammered the refrain, like the air of a song : 44 I must 
not tell her — she must never know.” 

And he did not tell her. He bore all the pain and 
loneliness in silence, and no hint of whom he really was 
ever passed his lips. He was old and broken, too weary 
to fare forth into the world again, even had he any hope 
for which to live. So he stayed on at the little tavern 
with Miriam Lane, and worked amongst the boatmen and 
fishermen of the port, earning enough money to pay for 
his board and lodging. He hardly ever spoke to anybody, 
though once, when his landlady was talking to him again 
of the old tale, he asked whether the miller’s wife did 
not fear that perhaps after all the first husband might 
still be alive and should come again one day to claim 
her. 

44 Fear it? ” said Miriam. 44 Aye, that she does ! If 
one could tell her he had seen him dead it would indeed 
be a comfort to her.” And Enoch thought to himself : 

44 When the Lord has taken me she shall know.” 

So he lived and worked for a little while, but the God 
in whom he trusted was merciful to him and did not 
unduly prolong his tortured life. Scarcely a year after he 
had returned to the little fishing village he sickened and 
fell ill. He had no definite sickness, but a kind of gentle, 
weakening languor sapped his life and strength away until 
at last he could do no more than lie in his bed in the one 
little room his scanty resources could afford. He bore 
his weakness cheerfully, for the death that was fast 
approaching seemed to him as a lifeboat drawing near 
might have seemed to a crew of shipwrecked souls on 
board a stranded wreck. 

Three days before he died he called Miriam to him. 

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“ I have something to confide in you,” he said, “ but 
before I tell you what it is you must swear upon the Book 
that you will not reveal it till you see me dead.” And 
although Miriam scolded him and told him that of course 
he was not going to die, his sickness was but a passing 
weakness, he persisted until at last the good woman, 
awed into submission by his authoritative tone, did as he 
asked, and swore solemnly that she would tell no one. 

Then Enoch told her who he was and of all the things 
that had happened to keep him away from his wife during 
those long, sad years. 

Miriam’s tears flowed fast as she listened, and she 
longed to rush out into the town and tell the strange story. 
But she was bound by her promise, and a promise made 
upon the Bible was sacred to her, as Enoch had known 
it would be. She urged Enoch to let her fetch his 
children, at least, before he died, but Enoch shook his 
head. 

“No,” he said; “let me keep my purpose steadfast 
to the last. But when you see her tell her that I died 
loving and blessing her as much as when she laid her head 
beside my own; and tell my son and daughter that I 
blessed them and prayed for them ; and tell Philip that 
I blessed him too, for he never meant us anything but 
good.” 

Then he drew out of his bosom a lock of a baby’s 
hair. 

“Take this to her,” he said. “She cut it off and 
gave it to me the morning that I left her, and I have 
borne it with me all these years, thinking never to part 
with it. But now my mind is changed. I shall see my 
baby very soon now, and it may comfort her a little. 

224 


Enoch Arden 

Moreover, it will be a token to her that I am really her 
husband.’ * 

Worn out with weakness, he ceased talking, and 
Miriam poured out a voluble stream of promises. Three 
nights later, as the good woman watched beside his bed, 
and the sick man lay sleeping motionless, there came of 
a sudden so loud a calling of the sea that all the houses 
in the haven rang with it, and Enoch was awakened. He 
started up in his bed and, stretching out his arms, cried 
with a loud voice : 

“ A sail ! A sail ! I am saved ! ” And then fell back 
and spoke no more. 

So this strong heroic soul passed away to wait in peace 
until at length time should unite him once more to the 
wife he loved so dearly. Miriam was free now to tell his 
story, and soon the whole port rang with the news of 
Enoch Arden’s return and the brave silence he had kept 
for Annie’s sake. And when they buried him the little 
port had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 


225 


Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel 

A BOU BEN ADHEM lay sleeping in his chamber. 

/ ^ He was a good man and very kind to all the 
/ % people about him, though he was not quite as 

strict over his spiritual observances as some would have 
had him be. And although some very religious people 
might not have approved of him, yet many a poor man 
counted him as a friend. Many a desolate widow spoke 
his name in love and gratitude, and many a fatherless 
child was taught to pray that God would pour down his 
blessings upon Abou Ben Adhem and his tribe. 

Abou Ben Adhem’s dreams were pleasant as he lay 
upon his bed, and when at length he awoke from them 
a great sense of peace and happiness filled his breast. It 
was still night-time, and his room was flooded with moon- 
light — at least, so at first it seemed to Abou Ben Adhem. 
But as he grew more fully awake he saw that it was not 
moonlight that was making his room so bright. An angel, 
clothed in wonderful shining white robes, sat there, and 
it was from him that this exceeding brightness came. 

The angel was writing in a book which he held upon 
his knee, and Abou Ben Adhem, rendered bold by the 
deep peace which his happy dreams had brought upon 
him, raised himself in his bed and said to the presence 
in his chamber : 


“ What writest thou? ” 


Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel 

The angel raised his head and looked full at Abou 
Ben Adhem, easting upon him a glance which was at 
once both serious and tender. Then, with a smile that 
seemed to make the chamber even lighter than before, 
he answered gently : 

“ I write the names of those who love the Lord.” 

“ Is mine one? ” asked Abou Ben Adhem. But the 
angel shook his head. 

“Nay, not so,” he answered. 

Abou Ben Adhem was silent for a few moments while 
a momentary feeling of sadness drove the happiness from 
his heart. Then he lifted his head again and smiled and 
said, still cheerfully, but in a lower tone than before : 

“ I pray thee, then, write me as one who loves his 
fellow-men.” 

The angel wrote and vanished, and Abou Ben Adhem 
lay down again to sleep, though perhaps not quite so 
peacefully as before. He could not help feeling a little 
troubled by the angel’s words. Was it really true that 
he did not love his Lord? Would it be more acceptable 
to God if he gave less money to the poor and spent more 
in his religious observances? If he spent less time in 
visiting his poor friends, in cheering the sad and helping 
the needy, he would have much more time to give to 
prayer, if that was really what God would have him do. 

He fell asleep again at last, for in spite of the strange 
thoughts and the doubts and misgivings with which the 
angel’s visit had filled his mind he was not wholly 
unhappy. He knew that he had acted according to what 
he honestly believed to be right, and so his conscience 
could not trouble him very greatly. Still he was a little 
disturbed, and all the next day he was rather quiet and 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

silent, wondering, perhaps, if he ought to change his way 
of living, giving more time to his Lord’s service and less 
to the service of his fellow-men. 

But the next night, as Abou Ben Adhem lay asleep, 
the angel came again, surrounded this time by an even 
more dazzling light, which was so intense that it awoke 
Abou Ben Adhem from his slumbers. This time the 
Angel said no word, but in his hand he held a book in 
which were written the names of those whom God loved. 
With a wonderful smile the angel opened the book and 
held the open page out to Abou Ben Adhem, pointing 
with his finger the while to show that he was to read what 
was written there. Abou Ben Adhem sat up and bent 
forward to look, and there on the open page he saw by 
the brilliant light shed around him his own name written 
in shining letters at the head of all the rest. 

He gazed at his name in that place of honour, scarcely 
daring to believe that this wonderful thing could be true, 
that he, Abou Ben Adhem, should be accounted worthy 
to head the list of the names of those whom God loved. 
Then he looked up into the angel’s face to see if he had 
read aright. The angel smiled down at him from deep, 
tender eyes, then once more he vanished from Abou Ben 
Adhem ’s sight. 

But this time he left behind him peace and joy — joy 
so great and wonderful that Abou Ben Adhem felt happier 
than he had ever felt before in all his life. Now he knew 
that his way of life was right. God had sent His angel 
to show him that he had not been wrong when he had 
accounted that love — love of family, love of friend, love 
of his neighbours, love of his poorer brothers and sisters, 
love of little children, was the best and surest way of loving 
228 


Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel 

God. He need not mind now what other people might 
say or think of him since he knew that his name was 
written in God’s book. 

With a deep sigh of happiness Abou Ben Adhem lay 
down to sleep again, feeling that he had been blessed 
beyond all that he had ever dreamt or hoped. The angel, 
it was true, had spoken no word when he came the second 
time, but Abou Ben Adhem did not need any explanation 
of the meaning of his vision. He who loves his brother 
cannot help but love God too. And since Abou Ben 
Adhem had learnt the lesson of loving so thoroughly, his 
name was counted worthy to lead all the rest of the names 
in the book of those whom God loved. 


The Forsaken Merman 


I N the deep caverns of the sea there dwelt a sea-king 
who had a mortal woman for his wife. He loved her 
dearly and devotedly, and she loved him in return, 
and for a long while they lived happily together in their 
palace under the sea with their children, who were all 
little mermen and mermaidens. The caverns of the sea 
palace were cool and beautiful, ceilinged with amber, 
paved with pearl, and filled with soft, dim lights. Out- 
side the cavern doors the many-coloured seaweeds waved 
to and fro with the tide, and under their shadow the little 
mermen and mermaidens played with the sea beasts and 
the fishes and watched the sea snakes coil and twine 
and the great whales go sailing by on their journey round 
the world. 

But one day as Margaret — for that was the name of 
the merman’s wife — sat on her gold throne with her 
youngest child on her knee, combing its soft, bright hair, 
which shone red-gold in the dim light of the cavern, as 
her children played around her and her husband watched 
her with passionate love in his eyes, there came a strange 
sound of music through the green depths of the sea— the 
far-off sound of a silver bell. It came from the little grey 
church on the windy hill outside the white-walled fishing- 
town in the world above. It was Easter Day on the 
earth, and the church bell was ringing to call all Christian 

230 



“ Margaret sat on her gold throne with her youngest child on her knee.” 



The Forsaken Merman 

souls to worship on the Resurrection Day. And the mer- 
man’s wife stopped combing her little one’s bright hair 
and gazed up through the clear water listening. 

“ ’Twill be Easter-time in the world,” she said, 44 and 
my kinsfolk will be praying in the little grey church on 
the shore to-day. Ah ! Merman, I lose my poor soul here 
with thee — let me go and join my prayers with theirs? ” 

The merman’s heart grew cold with a foreboding of 
sorrow, but he loved his wife too tenderly to refuse her 
least request. 

44 Go up, dear heart, through the waves,” he said, 
44 and when you have said your prayer come back to us.” 
And Margaret smiled and left them and swam up through 
the surf in the bay to answer the call of the little silver 
bell. 

Presently the bell ceased ringing, the service in the 
little grey church on the shore had begun. Down below 
in the deep sea caverns the merman waited for his wife’s 
return. His children played in the sea pastures, but the 
merman did not watch their play as usual. He gazed 
upwards through the water, waiting for Margaret to come 
back to him. He waited and waited, and the fear and 
longing in his heart grew greater as the moments sped by 
and still she did not come. The sea grew stormy, and 
presently the little ones began to cry and fret, for they 
were tired and cold and longed sadly for their mother’s 
return. 

44 They say long prayers in the world,” cried the mer- 
man at last ; and then he rose and held out his hands to 
the children. 

44 Come,” he said, 44 we will go and fetch your 
mother.” And up and up through the salt sea waves 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

went the sea-king and his little ones, and rode on their 
prancing white horses across the bay to the shore. 

Over the shingly beach they went, over the sandy 
down where the sea-stocks bloomed, to the little white- 
walled town, on through the narrow, winding streets, 
where all was still and silent, till they came to the little 
grey church on the windy hill. A murmur as of people 
praying reached their ears as they came to the church- 
yard, and they climbed on the old grey stones, worn with 
rain and weather, and gazed through the small leaded 
panes and up the cool, grey aisle of the church looking 
for Margaret. 

She sat by a pillar, and the merman’s heart gave a 
great throb as he caught sight of her. 

44 Margaret, Margaret, come to us, we are here ! ” he 
cried. 44 The sea grows stormy, the little ones cry. Come 
to us, dear heart ; we are long alone ! ” And the children 
called too, but their mother did not hear. Her eyes were 
sealed to her book. The priest prayed on and on; the 
church doors were fast shut — all their crying could not 
reach Margaret where she sat. And at last, sadly, hope- 
lessly, the merman turned away. 

44 Come away, children; call no more,” he said. 
44 She will not come though you call all day.” And back 
through the town, and over the beach, and down, down, 
down to the depths of the sea went the forsaken merman 
and his children. 

And Margaret never went back to the sea-king’s 
palace under the waves. She dwelt in the little fishing 
town and made her living by her spinning-wheel, and 
as she spun she sometimes sang a little song of joy. Per- 
haps she was glad to be back on the earth again, glad 

232 


The Forsaken Merman 

to feel the warmth of the sun as it shone down upon 
her, glad to hear the silver bell ringing, glad to .worship 
once more with her kinsfolk in the little grey church on the 
hill. But sometimes, when her work was done, she would 
steal to the window and gaze out over the sea, and a sad 
look would creep over her face and a long, long sigh 
would break from her lips. And then, perhaps, she was 
thinking of her pearl-caverned home deep in the dim, 
strange lights of the ocean bed, of the merman husband 
who had loved her so passionately, of the sea-blue eyes 
of a little mermaiden and the gleam of her golden hair. 

On soft clear nights, when the moon shines bright 
and the winds blow soft and the tides are low, the mer- 
man and his little ones still rise from their sea caverns 
and climb over the banks of seaweed, left dry by the 
ebbing tide, to gaze at the white, sleeping town and the 
little grey church on the hill. Then back again through 
the deep water they go, singing a sad, sweet song : 

‘ There dwells a loved one, 

But cruel is she ! 

She left lonely for ever 
The kings of the sea.” 


233 


La Belle Dame Sans Merd 

A YOUNG knight was once riding through 
pleasant country fields and meadow lands. The 
sun was shining, birds were singing around him, 
and summer flowers were blowing at his feet amongst the 
meadow grasses. The world seemed very fair and lovely 
to him as he rode on his way, and his heart was beating 
high with expectation, for he hoped to meet with great 
and wonderful adventures which when fulfilled should win 
him fame and great renown. 

Presently, as he rode along, he saw a woman coming 
towards him through the long grass. As she drew near 
the young knight drew up his horse in amazement, for 
never before had he seen anyone so beautiful. Her hair 
hung down almost to her feet, her figure was tall and 
slight, and her eyes were the most wonderful eyes the 
knight had ever seen. She came towards him, dancing 
across the meadows, so lightly and with such elfin grace 
that her slender feet seemed hardly to touch the ground 
as she moved. 

“This is no mortal maiden,” thought the knight, as 
he watched her. “ She must be some fairy’s child.” 

The maiden came up to the knight’s side and looked 
at him with her wonderful eyes and smiled. And as 
those strange eyes met his the knight felt a passionate 
thrill run through his heart. He sprang from his horse 

234 



“ The knight and the lady wandered through the flower-strewn meadows 

together.” 




La Belle Dame Sans Merci 

and knelt at the lady’s feet, offering her his whole-hearted 
devotion. 

The lady smiled at him again and spoke in a strange 
language that the knight could not understand, but it 
seemed to him that the words she said could only mean 
one thing. 

“ I love thee true,” her eyes seemed to tell him; and 
he was content to take that message without asking 
any more. 

All day long the knight and the lady wandered through 
the flower-strewn meadows together. When the woman 
grew weary the knight set her upon his horse, and, walk- 
ing beside her, he gazed into her wonderful eyes until he 
was almost intoxicated by them. He gathered the flowers 
that were growing at his feet and wove a garland for her 
head ; he made a girdle and bracelets from the golden 
buttercups, and hung them upon her; and the lady 
laughed and smiled at him and sung him snatches of 
strange elfin songs which enchanted the young knight’s 
ear. Sometimes they stopped and rested for a while, and 
then the woman would search for sweet roots and wild 
honey, which she gave to the knight to eat, and dew for 
him to drink. And when they had rested and eaten and 
drunk their fill, the knight would set his lady on his 
steed again, and they would wander off once more through 
the summer land. Never a conscious word did they ex- 
change, but the knight was utterly happy with a strange 
new feeling of happiness such as he had never experienced 
before. And when the lady leant down from the saddle 
to sing soft sweet words in his ear, as she would do every 
now and then, his heart leapt within him, and he longed 
to ride forth on some hard and dangerous quest for her 

235 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

sake, and felt that he would gladly have done battle for 
her against the whole world. 

As it began to draw towards evening, the lady led 
her lover to an elfin bower, set deep in the heart of a 
wood. Then, as she led him into it, she began to weep 
and sigh, and when he saw her tears the young knight 
could restrain his love no longer. Catching her in his 
arms, he kissed her, pressing his lips upon her wonderful 
sad eyes. 

Then the lady ceased her weeping. She sat down on 
the ground, and making the knight lie beside her with 
his head on her lap, she lulled him to sleep. The knight 
was weary and so happy to be with his lady that he feared 
nothing, and he closed his eyes and fell asleep in perfect 
contentment, little knowing that it was the last time he 
would ever so lie down to sleep again. Perhaps if he had 
seen the strange smile on the lady’s beautiful face as she 
bent over him he might have been warned. But he did 
not see, and slumber overtook him speedily. 

But while he slept a strange and terrible dream came 
to him. He dreamt that he stood on a cold hill-side, and 
all around him pressed a great crowd of men — kings, 
princes and warriors — all pale as death, haggard and woe- 
begone, with wild, despairing eyes. They stretched out 
warning hands towards the young knight, crying to him : 

“ La Belle Dame sans Merci hath thee in thrall ! ” 

Startled by his dream, the young knight awoke and 
sprang to his feet, his hand upon his sword. He looked 
round for the lady in whose arms he had sunk to rest, 
but she was gone. Gone was the elfin grotto, gone was 
all the pleasant country land through which he had 
wandered so happily all day. He was alone on a cold 
236 


La Belle Dame Sans Merci 

hill-side, which looked down upon a dreary lake, from 
which the very sedge was withered and from the dreary 
dead margin of which no birds could sing. 

And never again did the young knight ride through 
the land in search of noble quests. Never more did he 
meet the lady who had bewitched him with her enchant- 
ments; but yet he was unable to break away from the 
spell she had laid upon him. Always, summer and winter 
alike, he wandered on the hill-side, beside the margin of 
the dreary lake, pale and haggard like the kings and 
warriors he had seen in his dream, who were the spirits 
of brave men whom the fairy woman had enchanted and 
whose souls she still held in thrall. The knight knew now 
how false was her fairness, but it was too late to escape 
from it. He had given his heart to La Belle Dame sans 
Merci, and now he was doomed to wander for ever, hope- 
lessly and fruitlessly, in search of her. 

To those who meet him and ask the reason of his 
wretchedness he tells his story — how he rode through the 
meadows that pleasant summer’s morning, how he met 
the fairy woman who enchanted him with her strange 
elfin song and her wonderful sad eyes, how she took him 
to her fairy bower, how he yielded at last to her spell and 
kissed her, and then how he had fallen asleep, to awake 
on the cold hill-side, lonely and miserable for ever. 

“ And this is why I sojourn here, 

Alone and palely loitering, 

Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake, 

And no birds sing.” 


237 


King John and the Abbot of Canterbury 

f ■ "^HERE lived in the reign of King John an 
Abbot of Canterbury who was renowned far and 
wide for his great riches and the state in which 
he lived. It chanced that tidings of his wealth and dignity 
came to the ears of King John, and the king was very 
indignant indeed to think that a mere abbot should 
live in such a luxurious manner. He sent post-haste to 
Canterbury to summon the delinquent to his court in 
London, and when the abbot arrived he spoke to him 
with great heat. 

4 4 How now, Father Abbot,” said the king. 44 I hear 
that you keep a far better house than I do. I have heard 
that you have an hundred men at arms daily about you, 
and that fifty serving men in velvet coats and golden 
chains wait upon you hourly. I like not this state, my 
lord Abbot. I fear me that thou workest treason against 
my crown.” 

4 £ Indeed, my liege,” said the abbot earnestly, 44 I 
spend nothing but what is my own. I trust your grace 
will not think evil of me for spending of my own true- 
gotten goods? ” 

44 Nay, Father Abbot, but I do think evil of you,” 
answered the king. 44 Undoubtedly thou plannest treason 
against my person; the pomp and state in which you 
live assures me of it. And for this fault I decree that 
thou must die.” 


238 


King John and the Abbot of Canterbury 

“Die?” gasped the abbot in dreadful dismay; and 
the king smiled grimly to see his fear. 

“Yes, die,” he said. Then, wishing further to 
torment the poor wretch, he added : 

“ That is, unless you can answer me three questions. 
If you can reply to them, mayhap of my royal clemency 
I will pardon thy misdemeanour; but if thou canst not 
answer them, then shall thy head be smitten from thy 
body without more delay. These are the questions : 
first, you must tell me to one penny what I am worth 
when I sit here upon my throne with my gold crown 
upon my head and my liegemen of noble birth about me ; 
secondly, you shall tell me how soon I may ride the whole 
world about ; and the third task is to tell me truly what 
I do think. Answer me these questions, Father Abbot, 
and even now shalt thou save thy head.” 

The poor old abbot trembled exceedingly as the king 
laughed loudly at his own wit. The poor man knew well 
that the king had only set these questions to prolong his 
misery before he died, for there was no man living that 
could answer them. He knew too that the king did not 
really suspect him of treachery. John had trumped up 
this excuse of treason merely in order that he might get 
rid of the abbot and gain possession of the old man’s 
wealth. Still, the abbot was a brave man, and he deter- 
mined to make what use he could of the respite offered 
him. If he could but gain time it would be something. 

“These be hard questions for my shallow wit,” he 
said, endeavouring to disguise his fear. “ I cannot answer 
your grace as yet, but if Your Majesty will but give me 
three weeks in which to think them over I will surely 
do my best to solve your riddles.” 

239 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“Well, I will give thee three weeks’ space since you 
ask it,” said the king. “ But that is the longest time 
thou hast to live, so look you use it well, Sir Abbot. If 
at the end of the three weeks thou hast not found an 
answer to my questions, then shall thy head pay the 
forfeit, and thy lands and living shall revert to me.” 

Very sadly the abbot left the king’s presence, and 
mounting his horse, he rode away from the court. He 
rode to Cambridge and Oxford, and questioned all the 
wise and learned men who dwelt there, but none of them, 
for all their vast learning, could devise answers that would 
be likely to satisfy the king. And at last, when but three 
days remained of his time of grace the abbot rode back 
to his home at Canterbury to put his affairs in order and 
to say good-bye to his friends before he died. 

The first person to greet him as he drew near his home 
was his shepherd, who was driving the sheep to fold. 
He was overjoyed to see the abbot again, who was beloved 
by all his servants for his kindness and goodness to them, 
and he hailed his master delightedly. 

“ How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home 
indeed! ” the man cried, running forward to greet him. 
“ What news do you bring us from good King John? ” 

“ Sad news, my shepherd, sad news indeed! ” sighed 
the abbot. “ I have but three more days to live. The 
king suspects me of treason to his person, and he has 
decreed that unless I answer him three questions which 
no man living may answer then shall my head be smitten 
from my body. And I fear me that the king will keep 
his word, for it is not the answer to his questions he 
requires, but my wealth and lands, which, if I am executed 
for treason, he may seize for his own.” 

240 


King John and the Abbot of Canterbury 

“ This is sad news indeed, ” cried the shepherd, who 
loved his master dearly. “ But what be these questions, 
sir? Will you not tell me?” 

“ Truly I will tell thee, good shepherd, as thou 
desirest to hear them,” answered the abbot. “ The first 
is to tell the king, as he sits upon his throne with his 
golden crown on his head and his liege men about him, 
what he is worth to one penny. The second is to tell 
him exactly how long it would take him to ride the whole 
world about ; while the third is to tell him truly what he 
is thinking of. His Majesty does but jest in order to 
prolong my misery, for it was never intended that I 
should find the answers. Indeed, there are no answers 
that a man might give to such foolish questions.” 

“ Nay, nay, Sir Abbot, be not too sure of that,” said 
the old shepherd cheeringly. “Did ye never hear yet 
that a fool may sometimes learn a wise man wit? Now 
if ye will but lend me your horse and your serving-men 
and your goodly apparel, I will ride to London and 
answer these questions in your stead. Men say that I 
am as like your lordship as may well be. Even our very 
voices sound alike, I have been told ; and if you will but 
lend me your gown I’ll warrant there is none in London 
town shall know us apart.” 

The abbot shook his head, but the old shepherd 
persisted that he had thought of a plan to answer the 
king, and at last his master gave to him an unwilling 
consent. 

“So be it as thou wilt,” he said. “Horses and 
serving-men shalt thou have, and apparel gorgeous enough 
in which to appear before the Pope. After all, my head 
is forfeit in any case. Thou canst do me no harm, and 

Q 241 


My Book; of Stories from the Poets 

mayhap thou mayst do me good. We can but try thy 
plan, since I have none other of my own.” 

Then the shepherd was given horses and serving-men, 
and, arrayed in the abbot’s crosier and mitre and rochet 
and cope and vestments of silk and satin, he set off 
for London town. And so wonderful was the likeness 
between him and his master, that when he entered the 
king’s court there were none that even questioned 
whether he were indeed the abbot. 

“Now welcome, my lord Abbot,” cried King John. 
“It is well that you have come back to keep your day. 
Since thou hast kept troth with me, I will keep troth 
with thee. If thou canst answer my three questions, 
thy life and thy living shall both be saved. Now tell me 
first, as I sit here with my gold crown upon my head 
and my liege men about me, how much do I be worth? ” 

The pretended abbot looked the king full in the face 
and answered him readily enough. 

“For thirty pence was our Saviour sold — I think 
that thou art worth a penny less than He,” he said. 
“ Twenty-nine pence, Sir King, is thy price. No man 
can be worth more than that, since no man can be worth 
more than the King of Life and Glory ; and yet, methinks, 
with thy gold crown upon thy head, thou canst not well 
be worth less.” 

The king laughed loud at the ready answer. 

“ I did not think I had been worth so little,” he said. 
“ Thou hast answered the first question well, my lord 
Abbot. Now tell me how long it will take me to ride 
the whole world about? ” 

“ That is soon answered,” quoth the shepherd. “You 
must rise with the sun, and ride with him until he rises 


King John and the Abbot of Canterbury 

again the next morning. Then Your Graee need have no 
doubt but that in twenty-four hours you will have ridden 
the whole world about.” 

“ Now by my beard ! ” cried the king in delight, “ I 
did not think it could be done so soon. Two questions 
hast thou answered right well and merrily ; but now here 
is the third, from which you shall not shrink. Tell me 
truly, here and now, what I do think? ” And the king 
chuckled maliciously, for well as his victim had answered 
hitherto he felt sure that he would fail at this last and 
most difficult question of all. 

But the disguised abbot had his answer ready. With- 
out a moment’s hesitation he responded to the third 
question. 

“Yes, that I will do, and make Your Grace merry,” 
he cried quickly. “ Your Majesty thinks I am the Abbot 
of Canterbury. But I am only his poor shepherd, as you 
may straightly see. And I have come hither to beg pardon 
for him and for me.” And throwing open his gorgeous 
vestments he displayed his shepherd’s smock beneath the 
abbot’s robes. 

The king rolled back in his seat, roaring with laughter 
at the joke. It was long since he had been so taken in. 
Although the trick had been played against himself, yet he 
had humour enough to forgive the jester for the sake of 
the jest. 

“Now by the mass ! ” he cried, so soon as he was able 
to speak for laughing. “ I’ll make thee lord abbot this 
day in his place. Such a jest deserves a rare reward.” 

“ Nay, now, my liege,” said the shepherd. “ Be not 
in such a speed. Alack ! I can neither read nor write. 
What should I do dressed up as an abbot? I would far 

243 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

rather tend my sheep as of old under the blue sky of 
heaven.’ * 

“Well, then, I will pay thee four nobles a week so 
long as thou livest,” said the king, “for the sake of this 
merry jest that thou hast shown me. And when thou 
goest home thou canst tell the old abbot that thou hast 
brought him a pardon from good King John.” 

So the Abbot of Canterbury was saved by the wit of his 
faithful shepherd ; and they both lived happily from that 
time onward until they died in a good old age. 


244 


The Ancient Mariner 


H E was an old seafaring man, bronzed and 
weather-beaten, with bright, glittering eyes that 
shone strangely in his thin, brown face, and he 
stood by the side of the road, eagerly scanning the faces 
of the passers-by, as though he .were looking for someone 
whom he feared to miss. Suddenly the strange eyes were 
filled with a gleam of satisfaction and relief as they fell 
upon the face of a man who, in company with two com- 
panions, was hurrying along the road towards him. 

These three friends were hastening to a wedding-feast 
to which they had been bidden as guests. They were late 
already, and when the old seaman with the thin face and 
bright eyes left his watch by the roadside, and stepping 
in front of them, caught one of them by the arm, the other 
two hurried on. Doubtless it was some acquaintance of 
their friend’s, of whom he would soon rid himself. And 
anyway they had not time to wait. The man who was 
stopped turned in anger and astonishment to the old man, 
who was an utter stranger to him. 

4 4 By thy long grey beard, now wherefore dost thou 
stop me? ” he cried ; then, as the old man did not answer, 
he added impatiently : “Canst thou not hear the merry 
din from the bridegroom’s house? The wedding-feast to 
which I am bidden is set, the guests are all met together, 

245 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

and I am next of kin. Whatever it is you have to say 
to me I cannot stay to listen to you now.” 

But the ancient mariner seemed to take no notice of 
the man’s impatient words. He fixed his strange eyes 
upon the face of the wedding guest, and kept a firm hold 
of his arm with his lean brown hand. The wedding guest 
jerked his arm in exasperation. 

“ Unhand me, grey-beard loon!” he cried, and the 
mariner dropped his hand at the words. But he did not 
remove his strange gaze, and the wedding guest, though 
fretting and chafing at the delay, felt that in some un- 
accountable manner he must stay and listen to the 
mariner’s story, whatever it might be. He was held by 
some strange spell, and dropping down on a stone by the 
roadside with a gesture of resignation, he waited for the 
old man to tell his tale. The mariner had his will, and 
fixing his eyes impressively upon his unwilling listener, 
he began to speak. 

“ The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the lighthouse top,” 

he said, and then he went on to tell the wedding guest 
this strange story. 

“ Day after day, when we had left the harbour, we 
sailed southward with fair wind and weather. Every 
morning the sun rose up upon our left, every evening he 
sank down into the sea upon our right. Good fortune 
seemed to be befriending us, and in due course we sailed 
across the line.” 

A sudden burst of music came from the bridegroom’s 
246 


The Ancient Mariner 

house. The bride had entered the hall, and the musicians 
were playing before her as she went to meet the bride- 
groom. The wedding guest beat his breast in vexation, 
but still the strange spell was upon him. Much as he 
wanted to be off, he could not choose but stay where he 
was till the mariner’s tale was told, and fidgeting with 
growing impatience he listened while the old man 
went on : 

44 So far had we sailed in safety, but now a mighty 
storm arose, so tyrannous and strong that it seemed as 
though the storm fiend himself was behind that terrible 
blast. He caught us with his mighty wings and drove us 
before him southwards. With sloping masts and dip- 
ping prow as though fleeing from a foe, the ship swept 
on before the blast ; and when at last the storm died down 
we found ourselves far out of our course, in the strange 
cold seas around the south pole. 

“ And now we were in the midst of mist and snow. 
Great mountains of ice floated around us, with snowy 
cliffs, and caverns that shone in their depths with the 
green light of emeralds. No shape of man or beast was 
to be seen. There was nothing but ice and snow as far 
as the eye could see. 

44 We were in a woeful state! Alone in a world of 
snow and cold, surrounded by fearful sounds, the cause 
of which we could not discover, hemmed in by fields of ice 
and the thick impenetrable fog, it seemed as though we 
must perish of cold and hunger. It appeared impossible 
that we should find our way out of those unknown seas, 
and we were despairing of ever seeing our homes again, 
when one day a great white bird came flying through the 
mist and snow. It was an albatross, the bird of good 

247 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

omen, and we hailed it joyfully in God’s name, as a sign 
of His love and care for us. 

“We gave the bird food to eat, and it circled round 
and round us, and suddenly the ice which held us fast 
began to split. With a crack like a roar of thunder it 
flew apart, a way was cleared for us, and with shouts of 
gladness we gathered round to watch while the helmsman 
steered us through the yawning chasm out of the land of 
ice and desolation. 

“ And now a good south wind sprang up behind us 
and bore us northward once again. The fog still hung 
about us, but every day we were drawing nearer to the 
seas where we hoped to find sunshine and warmth. And 
the albatross, which had brought us good fortune, followed 
us, and every day came when we called it for food or 
for play. 

“ In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
Glimmered the white moon-shine.” 

The old man paused, and the wedding guest was 
startled at the look of agony on his face. 

“God save thee, ancient mariner!” he exclaimed. 
“ Why look’st thou so? ” And the ancient mariner, with 
a shudder, as though his companion’s words had awakened 
him from some terrible dream, said slowly : 

“ With my cross-bow I shot the albatross.” 

He paused again, as though overcome with horror at 
the recollection of his deed. The wedding guest was 
growing more and more uneasy. If he could, he would 
have stolen away while the old man was lost in thought, 
248 


“ It was an albatross, the bird of good omen, and we hailed it joyfully.” 




























































•• 






















The Ancient Mariner 

but still he could not move from his place, and presently 
the mariner resumed his story. 

4 4 The sun now rose up upon our right, and went down 
at evening upon our left into the sea, but it was dim and 
red, veiled in the mist which hung about us. The south 
wind still blew us northward, but no beautiful white bird 
followed us now, nor came any more at our call for food 
or play. My companions looked at me in horror. They 
said I had done a dreadful thing to kill the bird which had 
brought us good luck, and now some terrible misfortune 
would be sure to overtake us. But as day by day we yet 
flew onwards before the welcome breeze, the mists gradu- 
ally cleared until at last we passed out of the fog altogether. 
And then, when they saw how the sun rose up clear and 
bright, no longer shrouded in gloom, the seamen changed 
their minds, and declared that it must have been the 
albatross which had brought the fog and mist. It was 
right, they said, to slay the bird that had brought us such 
ill-luck. And still we sailed on northward until once more 
we reached the line, and we found ourselves in another 
unknown sea. 

“The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow followed free ; 

We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 

44 But now, alas! the good fortune that had followed 
us since we left the world of ice, departed. Down dropped 
the breeze, our sails dropped too, and our ship stood still 
in the midst of that strange silent sea. The sun was right 
over our head, set in a blazing copper sky. The heat was 
terrible ; and day after day we lay there becalmed, as idle 

249 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

as a painted ship upon a painted sea. The boards blistered 
and shrank beneath the fierce sun ; the very deep seemed 
to rot, and horrible slimy creatures with legs crawled upon 
the surface of the slimy sea. At night the death-fires 
danced on the ocean, making the water burn green and 
blue and white, like witch’s oils. When we slept we had 
dreadful dreams of a spirit that had followed us nine 
fathom deep from the land of mist and snow to wreak 
vengeance on us for the death of the albatross, the bird 
that he loved. 

“ And now a worse trouble than all that had gone 
before befell us — our water gave out ! Day and night we 
were consumed by a mighty thirst that was wellnigh 
intolerable in that terrible heat. All around us, as far as 
the eye could see, was water, yet we were dying of thirst. 
Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink ! The 
death of the albatross was beginning to be avenged. 

“And now there passed a weary time. Each throat 
was parched with thirst, glazed was every eye. And as 
for me — ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks had I from young 
and old ! It was I who had killed the albatross — it was 
through me that this terrible disaster had befallen us — 
and my companions hung around my neck the dead body 
of the murdered bird, to be to me a cross and a constant 
reminder of my crime.” 

The wedding guest had forgotten now his impatience 
to be at his kinsman’s wedding. He sat listening en- 
tranced, held by the mariner’s glittering eye, while the 
old man continued his story. He told how for many days 
the ship and her crew lay in that pitiful state until at last, 
far off, they beheld a ship approaching them. There was 
joy amongst the dying men then, but it was a joy that 
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The Ancient Mariner 

soon faded away and brought them even nearer to despair. 
For when the strange craft drew close, it was seen that 
she was nothing but a phantom ship, whereon they saw 
a woman play with Death for the souls of the mariners. 
The old man told how they all shrank away in horror as 
the spectre ship shot past them; and how as she passed, 
the sun suddenly dipped below the surface of the sea, and 
dark night came rushing down upon the doomed men. 
And after hours of darkness, when at last the horned moon 
rose up into the sky, one after another his shipmates 
dropped down dead. Without a sigh or groan they fell 
beside him, each turning upon him as he fell his sad 
reproachful eyes, while the mariner heard each soul pass 
by him like the whizz of his cross-bow. 

As he reached this point in his terrible story, the 
wedding guest, who had been gazing at him in ever- 
growing horror, shrank away with sudden fear. Surely, 
he thought to himself, no man could pass through such 
awful experiences and live? This could be no living man, 
it must be a spirit ! And he tried to rise and escape, 
crying out : 

44 I fear thee, ancient mariner! I fear thee and thy 
glittering eye! ” But it seemed as though the mariner 
read his thoughts, for he spoke to him reassuringly. 

“Fear not, fear not, thou wedding guest, ” he said. 
4 4 This body dropped not down. My shipmates all lay 
dead around me, but I — with the slimy creatures of the 
ocean— I lived on ! Alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on 
a wide, wide sea ! 

44 1 looked to heaven then, and tried to pray, but I 
could not. I had never learned how to pray in my time 
of prosperity, and now in my hour of need prayer would 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

not come. I closed my eyes and lay there amongst my 
dead companions, but even through my closed eyelids I 
could still see the look which they had cast on me in that 
moment when their spirits fled. Seven days and seven 
nights I lay there, parched with thirst, consumed with 
fever, tortured almost beyond endurance, but yet I could 
not die. 

“ On the seventh night, as the moon rose up into the 
sky, shedding her radiance upon the waters, I lay and 
watched the water-snakes as they moved in tracks of 
shining white beyond the shadow of the ship. Blue, 
glossy green and velvet black, they coiled and swam, and 
from their gleaming bodies flashed forth rays of golden fire. 
I lay and watched them, and suddenly my eyes seemed 
opened to their wondrous beauty. Hitherto I had loathed 
and hated these creatures of the deep, but now it seemed 
as though scales had fallen from my eyes. I saw their 
beauty, I realised their loveliness, and a feeling of love 
towards them sprang up in my aching heart. 

“ 4 Oh, happy, living things! ’ I cried, and as I cried 
it appeared as though some kind saint took pity on me, 
for the self-same moment I felt that I could pray. And 
with my prayer the spell began to break. The dead body 
of the albatross fell from my neck and slid into the sea, 
and sleep — blessed sleep — fell upon me. 

“ Oh, sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole ! 

To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 

She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 

That slid into my soul. 

“ I slept as I had not slept for many days and nights, 

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The Ancient Mariner 

and when I awoke from my life-giving sleep I found that 
it was raining. My lips were wet and my body was wet, 
and I drank in the precious moisture with a joy which I 
was unable to express, and felt that I could move my limbs 
again. And then I heard a roaring, as of wind in the 
distance. It did not come near the ship, but the very 
sound of it seemed to fill the sails, and suddenly as I lay 
watching, the dead men all about me rose up and began 
to work the ropes as they had been used to do. The helms- 
man steered, the ship moved on although never a breeze 
blew, and I rose up too, and began to work with the rest. 
A troop of blessed spirits had entered those dead bodies, 
and through their help the ship moved on again, away 
from that terrible sea of death and fear. 

4 4 Slowly and smoothly sailed the ship until noon the 
next day, then once more the sails fell down and the 
ship stood still. But it was only for a moment. Soon 
she began to move backwards and forwards with a short 
uneasy motion, then, like a pawing horse let go, she made 
a sudden bound which sent the blood into my head all 
weak and dizzy as I was, and I fell down in a swoon. 

44 How long I lay in that swoon I do not know, but 
when I returned to life once more I heard two voices 
talking in the air above me. 

44 4 This is the man,’ said one of the voices, 4 who with 
his cruel bow laid low the harmless albatross. The spirit 
who liveth by himself in the land of mist and snow loved 
the bird, and now it hath been slain by this man whom the 
creature loved and trusted.’ 

44 Then in my trance I heard another voice reply, a 
voice that was softer and sweeter than the other. 

44 4 This man hath penance done,’ it said, 4 and penance 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

more will do. ’ And then they spoke of how the ship drove 
on so fast without wave or wind, and I heard one of them 
saying : 

“ ‘ Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 

Or we shall be belated : 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 

When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’ 

And then I awoke, and the ship was sailing on gently and 
smoothly. It was night, calm night, the moon was high, 
and the dead men stood together on the deck, still working 
the ship. 

“ And now the terrible spell was broken. No longer 
did the dead men hold me with the terrible stony curse 
in their eyes which had haunted me all through those long 
days and nights of agony. Yet still, although now I 
could turn my eyes from theirs, and could once more look 
out far across the green ocean, I saw little of the sight 
before me. My soul was too lately relieved from the 
horror of that time, and I felt as though even yet the 
pain and anguish and terror of it might overwhelm me 
once again. I was 

“ Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks on, 

And turns no more his head ; 

Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

“ But soon there breathed a wind on me that fanned 
my cheeks and raised my hair like the wind from the 
meadows in spring. It mingled strangely with my fears, 

254 




The Ancient Mariner 

yet still it felt like a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly flew the 
ship, sweetly blew the breeze, and suddenly — oh, dream 
of joy ! — I saw the lighthouse top — I saw the hill — I saw 
the little church of my own dear country ! 

“We drifted over the harbour bar, and I prayed aloud 
with sobs and tears. 

“ 4 Oh, let me be awake, my God ! 5 I cried in anguish, 

4 or let me sleep alway ! ’ 

44 The silent moonlight flooded the little bay, the rocks 
shone like silver, and even the weathercock on the church 
spire was steeped in light. I turned my eyes back to the 
deck, and there — oh, wondrous sight ! — I saw those dead 
men lying once more cold and still in death, but on every 
dead body stood a radiant seraph-man, each waving his 
hand in signal to the shore. 

44 Then soon I heard the splash of oars, and the pilot’s 
boat appeared in sight. On board were the pilot and his 
boy, and the hermit who lives in the wood beside the town, 
where the shore slopes down to the sea. And when I saw 
the good hermit my heart leapt up with hope. Surely, 
I thought, he will shrive my soul. With holy water he 
will wash away the blood of the albatross. And joy beat 
in my breast, joy that even the presence of those dead 
men could not blast. 

44 The boat drew nearer, I could hear the men talking 
now. 

4 4 4 This is strange,’ they said. 4 Where are all those 
fair lights that made signal to us but now ! ’ And the 
pilot paused on his oar. 

4 4 4 I am a-feared,’ he said, 4 it hath a fiendish look.’ 
But the hermit would not let him turn back, as he was 
half-minded to do. 


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Push on, push on,’ he said cheerily. And the boat 
came close beneath the ship. And at that moment a 
sound was heard under the water. Louder and louder, 
and more and more dread it grew, and then with a fearful 
roar it was upon us. The whole world seemed to split 
asunder at that sound, and the ship sank down into the 
water like lead. 

“ Stunned by that dreadful noise, my body lay afloat 
amid the swirl of waters. Then, as though in a dream, 
I found myself lying in the pilot’s skiff. The frail craft 
spun round and round in the whirl of the water; then 
gradually the waves died down, and all was still again, 
save for distant echoes of that awful sound from the hill. 
I moved my lips and sat up, which terrified the occupants 
of the boat. The pilot fell down with a shriek, his boy 
seemed utterly crazed with fear, while even the holy 
hermit was in awe of me, and prayed aloud where 
he sat. 

“ I took the oars and pulled the boat to land, and stood 
once more in my own dear country. Then I turned to 
the hermit, who had stepped out after me. 

“ ‘ Shrive me, shrive me, holy man! ’ I begged, and 
the hermit made the sign of the cross on his forehead. 

44 ‘ Say quick,’ he cried, ‘I bid thee say! What 
manner of man art thou? ’ And forthwith this frame of 
mine was wrenched with a terrible agony which forced me 
to begin my tale. And then, when I had told it all, at 
last I felt that I was free — free from the stain of guilt, 
free from the blood of the albatross, free from the murder 
of my fellow-men. 

“ Since then, at different times, that agony returns. 
My heart burns within me until the ghastly tale is told. 

256 


The Ancient Mariner 

It is the penance I must ever pay for my sin. I pass 
like night from land to land ; the moment that I see his 
face I know the man that must listen to my tale, and with 
strange powers of speech I tell him of my sin, and the 
sorrow that it brought upon me.” 

As the old man finished these words a loud uproar 
burst from the bridegroom’s door. The wedding feast 
was over, and the bride and her maidens had passed into 
the garden-bower. From the little church rang out the 
vesper bell, and the ancient mariner added a few last 
words. 

“ Hark ! ” he said, “ the vesper bell is bidding me to 
prayer. Sweeter than the marriage feast is it to walk 
to the holy house of God with a goodly company, old men 
and maidens, youths and innocent babes, each to bow to 
his great Father, and lift up holy hands in prayer. I 
have been alone on a wide, wide sea, so wide and lonely 
that it seemed as though God Himself was scarcely there, 
and in my hour of greatest need it seemed to me as though 
even my Saviour had deserted me. Take warning from 
me, oh, wedding guest, and learn to love all things well, 
both man and bird and beast, so best shalt thou learn 
to pray well.” 

The mariner, with his bright, glittering eyes and his 
white beard, turned away, and in a moment he was gone. 
The wedding guest turned slowly from the bridegroom’s 
door, for it was useless to attend the marriage feast now. 
He went like one who has been stunned, and on the 
morrow he rose up a sadder but a wiser man, pondering 
on the lesson the mariner’s story had seemed to him to 
teach. 

It seemed to the wedding guest that it was a warning 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

to respect the life and liberty of every creature, and never 
to hurt or kill in idle sport any living creature that God has 
made, for 

“ He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things both great and small ; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all.” 



258 


Paradise and the Peri 

T HERE stood one morning at the gates of 
Paradise a Peri, one of those fallen spirits who 
had lost their place in Heaven. She might not 
enter through the glowing gateway; but as she stood 
gazing at the glorious sights within she wept to think 
that by her sin she had lost for ever her right to enter 
there. 

“ How happy,” she cried aloud, “ are the holy spirits 
that wander there, amidst flowers that never fade nor fall. 
The gardens of earth and sea are mine. I may wander at 
will amongst the stars and pluck their golden blossoms ; 
but, beautiful though they are, one flower of heaven out- 
blooms them all ! The waters of Cashmere are sunny and 
sweet and cool, the river of Tibet shines clear and golden 
in the sunlight, and yet the waters of heaven outshine 
them. All the pleasures of all the years multiplied to- 
gether cannot be compared with the joy of Paradise — one 
minute of heaven is worth them all. Oh that I had never 
fallen from my high estate — oh, that I might win back 
my right to Paradise! ” 

The Angel who was keeping the gate of Paradise 
heard her words, and his heart was filled with pity. Tears 
of compassion filled his eyes — tears as beautiful and holy 
as spray from the fountain of Eden lying on the blue 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

flowers which only blossom in Paradise — and drawing near 
to the Peri, he said gently : 

“ One hope is thine. In the Book of Heaven it is 
written : 

The Peri yet may be forgiven 

Who brings to this eternal gate 

The gift that is most dear to Heaven. 

Go seek this gift, redeem thy sin, and the gates of Paradise 
shall be opened, even to you.” 

Filled with joy and hope, the Peri turned from the 
golden gates. Swifter than a falling star she winged her 
way earthward. She would search through the world 
until she had found that gift. But where should she look’ 
for it first, and what could it be? 

“I know where unnumbered rubies burn in caverns 
beneath the earth,” she said. “ I know of wonderful 
jewels hidden fathoms deep in the sea. I know where the 
jewelled cup containing the Water of Life itself lies con- 
cealed — but what are these gifts worth to Heaven ? There 
is never a gem that shines like the gems in the steps of 
God’s throne ; and what would the drops of Life be worth 
to Him who holds the deeps of all eternity? ” And the 
Peri wept again to think how little the gifts which she 
could bring would be worth to God. 

As she winged her way across the earth, sorrowful 
and heavy hearted, she came to a battlefield where a 
young warrior stood alone beside the river of his native 
land. All his friends lay dead or dying around him, while 
with shouts of triumph his enemies closed him in. He 
alone remained to do battle for his country’s honour. His 
blade was broken in his hand, one arrow only remained in 
his quiver, but his heart was undaunted still 


Paradise and the Peri 

The captain of his foes drew near with a proud air. 

“ Live,” said he. “ Your life shall be spared, and you 
shall share my glories with me. A spirit such as yours 
is too brave to die.” 

The young warrior made no answer in words. He 
pointed to the river flowing red with the blood of his 
countrymen, and then drawing his bow he sent his last 
arrow towards the invader’s heart. 

Fast flew the shaft. The tyrant lived, the brave young 
soldier fell, as he had known he must when he gave his 
valiant answer. But dear though life was to him, his 
country’s honour was dearer still. When the tide of war 
had swept past the Peri flew to the spot where his body 
lay and caught the last drop of blood his brave heart had 
shed as his spirit left his body. Then upwards to the gate 
of Heaven she took her flight. 

“Surely,” she thought, “this must be the most wel- 
come gift to Heaven? ” 

But the angel shook his head as she laid the precious 
drop in his hand. 

“ Sweet indeed, to Heaven,” he said, “ is the blood 
poured out by man to save his native land. But, see, the 
crystal bar of Heaven moves not. Holier far must be the 
gift that will open the gates of Paradise to you.” 

Sadly the Peri turned away. What was this wonder- 
ful gift that would win her a place in Heaven? Once 
more she flew down to earth in search of the one thing 
which would win salvation for her. All day long she 
wandered about, and when the sun went down she found 
herself in a country where a dreadful pestilence was raging. 
People were sickening and dying in the space of a few 
hours. A man might rise up in the morning strong and 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

full of health, who before night fell would be lying cold 
in death. All around were sick and dying people, and the 
Peri’s heart ached with pity for them as she passed by, 
but she was unable to do anything to help them in their 
terrible need. 

Presently she came to a grove of orange trees beside a 
lake whose still waters lay stretched out pure and shining 
beneath the silver moon. Under the trees lay a man who 
had felt that he was stricken with the plague and had 
stolen out thus to die alone lest he should give the infection 
to those whom he loved. 

As the Peri watched him pityingly a young maiden 
came into sight. It was the young man’s betrothed bride, 
who had heard that he was dying and had followed him 
out to the grove of orange trees. It was for her sake 
that the sick man had wished to die alone ; but the maiden’s 
heart was too brave and true to allow her to stand aside 
for fear of the infection and let her lover die in loneliness 
and solitude. Heedless of his remonstrance she insisted 
upon remaining beside the dying man to hold him in her 
arms and share that last, lonely watch. 

Before the night was over the brave maiden sickened, 
too, of the terrible plague. She lived just long enough to 
close her lover’s eyes. Then she too sank down beside him, 
and with one last long kiss she died. 

The Peri flew softly down beside the lovers, undivided 
even in their death, and stole the farewell sigh of the 
brave maiden. Then, as the dawn began to brighten in 
the sky, she unfurled her wings and soared upwards again, 
her heart throbbing with the hope that she might win a 
place in Heaven with that precious sigh of pure, self- 
sacrificing love. But, alas ! her hopes were vain. 


Paradise and the Peri 

“ Not yet,” said the Angel, barring her way through 
the gate. “ Wonderful and holy and dear to Heaven is 
this second gift that you have brought ; but there is one 
thing that is holier and dearer even than love so true and 
pure as this. Until you bring this gift in your hand I 
cannot open the gates of Heaven to you.” 

Once more the Peri turned away. Once more she 
sought the earth; but her wings were heavy and weary, 
and her heart was aching with longing and hope unfulfilled. 
Where should she look now for this mysterious gift? 
What, oh what, could the treasure be that was so dear 
to Heaven? 

All day long she wandered hopelessly, and when the 
evening came she found herself in a rich and fertile valley. 
In a field close by a little child was playing amongst the 
rosy-hued flowers. He was as fresh and sweet as the 
flowers themselves, and with his little, eager, sunburnt 
hands he was trying to catch the blue butterflies that flut- 
tered around the meadow blossoms. The Peri paused to 
watch the boy’s play, and while she hovered gazing a man 
rode by, who stopped to give his horse water from a way- 
side well. Sitting on the brink of the well to rest, for he 
had ridden far and was very .weary, he too turned to 
watch the child as he laughed and sang amongst the 
flowers. 

The Peri, with her magic gifts, could see right down 
into the heart of the man. And as she read the dreadful 
things that were written there she shuddered. For the 
man had led a very wicked life. There was scarcely a sin 
in the world which he had not committed. It seemed 
as though there could not be one good impulse left in the 
heart of a sinner such as this. 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

At this moment the bell for vespers rang through the 
valley, gold-toned and sweet, calling all mankind to prayer. 
The boy abandoned his chase of the blue-winged insects, 
and, falling on his knees amongst the fragrant flowers, 
he lifted his hands and face to Heaven, and began to say 
aloud his tender, innocent prayer. 

It was a beautiful sight, the fair child kneeling there 
in his purity and innocence, lifting up his heart to God ; 
and the man sitting beside the well felt a sudden pang 
dart through his heart. Once he too had been an innocent 
child ; he too had played amongst the flowers and chased 
the butterflies ; once he too had knelt to lift a pure, stain- 
less heart to God at close of day. And as the memory 
of the pure, happy days of his boyhood flashed across his 
mind the tears sprang into his eyes — the first tears he had 
wept since he had left those days behind him — and, falling 
on his knees beside the child, he, too, hardened sinner 
though he was, lifted up his heart to Heaven in grief and 
penitence. 

The Peri sprang forward and, unseen, caught one of 
the precious drops that lay upon the man’s cheek. Then, 
with the sparkling drop close-circled in her hands, she 
flew once more towards the gates of Heaven. And this 
time as she drew near the gates were flung wide open to 
welcome her, and the Angel stood to greet her, smiling, 
his hands outstretched to draw her in. 

44 You have won your place in Paradise,” he said. 
44 You have learnt the lesson all must learn who enter these 
gates. Joy is yours for ever now, for your task is done. 
In your hands you bear the gift that is most dear to 
Heaven — the tear of a penitent soul.” 


Horatius 


T HERE was grief and dismay and consternation 
in the great city of Rome, for Lars Porsena, 
King of Clusium, had summoned his battle array 
and was marching with enormous forces of armed men to 
take and sack the city. He was championing the cause 
of Tarquinius Superbus, who had once been Emperor of 
Rome, but who had ruled so badly that at last the people 
had risen in revolt and driven him from the city, declaring 
that they would rule themselves for the future, and have 
an emperor no more. And now Tarquinius had asked 
help of Lars Porsena, and the King of Clusium had sworn 
by the nine gods whom he worshipped that he would help 
the house of Tarquin to be revenged upon the Romans. 

East and west, and south and north Lars Porsena’s 
messengers had ridden, summoning his people to battle, 
and well had the summons been answered. Horsemen 
and footmen had come flocking to his standard from all 
the villages of the Etruscan plain. There was scarcely 
an able-bodied man left in all his wide dominions : harvests 
would have to be reaped that year by old men, the sheep 
would have to be sheared by boys, the wine pressed out 
by girls and women, for no Etruscan worthy of the name 
might linger behind when Lars Porsena, King of Clusium, 
was on the march to Rome. 

Onward through all the villages of the plain swept the 
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great array, drawing daily and hourly nearer to Rome. 
The country people fled before the approach of the con- 
quering armies. For two whole days and nights the 
roads that led into Rome were stopped up by the crowds 
of fugitives fleeing in terror from the enemy. Old men 
and women came hobbling along on sticks and crutches ; 
delicate women, sick men borne in litters, mothers carry- 
ing their babies in their arms with their elder children 
clinging to their skirts, peasants driving their goats and 
mules and the wagons of food and corn and household 
goods which they had rescued from their homes, thronged 
the roads, so that it seemed that there would scarcely be 
room for such multitudes, even in the great city. And 
behind the fugitives, red against the sky, rose the flames 
from the burning villages, which marked the steady pro- 
gress of the foes of Rome. 

The city fathers were gathered together in the Senate, 
trying to decide what they should do in the face of this 
terrible danger. They had determined that they would 
not yield their city to the invaders without a struggle, 
and yet report said that the forces coming against them 
were so numerous that it was almost hopeless to think of 
repelling them. The only thing that could be done was 
to gather all their forces within the walls of the town, and 
trust to the stout defences to withstand the siege of the 
enemy. They had just come to this decision when news 
was brought to them that the fort outside the gates had 
fallen, and that all the guards that kept it were slain. 

Up rose the Consul and all the city fathers, and gird- 
ing their robes about them they hastened to the walls of 
Rome with all the speed of which they were capable. This 
was serious news indeed ! They had counted on the fort 


Horatius 

holding out until they had been able to build a mighty 
barrier at the entrance to the bridge which was the one 
possible way for an invading army to enter Rome, but 
now there was no time for this plan to be carried out. 

“There is nothing else for it! ” cried the Consul. 
4 4 Since the fort is lost, the bridge must needs go down. 
Nothing else can save the city! ” 

But even as he spoke, a scout came flying up, wild with 
haste and fear. 

44 To arms ! To arms ! ” he cried. 44 Lars Porsena is 
here ! ” And looking in the direction in which the 
excited man was pointing the fathers saw a dark cloud 
of dust raised against the sky. It was Lars Porsena 
indeed, advancing more rapidly than the Romans had 
deemed possible. 

Nearer and nearer came the cloud of dust, and now 
from the walls of the city could be heard the rolling of 
the drums, the trampling of men and horses, the war-like 
note of the trumpets. And as the people stood staring, 
paralysed with dismay, the ranks of their foes could be 
seen through the dust in broken gleams of light. 

Nearer and nearer they drew, and plainly and still 
more plainly might they be seen. Now the Romans could 
distinguish the banners of the twelve great cities of the 
plain, high over them all waving the standard of Clusium. 
And as the vast host drew ever nearer the people on the 
walls of Rome could see the faces of the leaders of their 
foes. Lars Porsena sat in his ivory car close beneath his 
standard. At his right hand rode Mamilius, one of the 
Latin Princes, who had come with an immense following 
to join the King of Clusium. And at his left hand rode 
a man the sight of whose lean, crafty face raised a storm 
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of bitter wrath and hatred in every Roman heart. For 
this was Sextus, the son of their late Emperor, a man who 
by his evil deeds and wicked, cruel behaviour had made 
himself abhorred of the people. Indeed it was largely 
to rid themselves of the Emperor’s son that they had risen 
in revolt. And when the face of Sextus was seen now 
amongst their foes, a roar of anger and fury rose up 
from the whole town. Men and women shook their fists 
towards him and called out curses upon his head, and 
even little children cried his name in horror. 

But the Consul’s face was darkened and his voice was 
low and grim, as he looked first at the walls and then at 
the advancing foe. 

4 4 They will be upon us before we can bring the bridge 
down,” he said. 44 And when once they have won the 
bridge there is little hope that we can ever save the town.” 

As the Consul spoke these bitter words a man stepped 
forward. It was Horatius, the Captain of the Gate, a 
brave, fearless, honourable man, loved and trusted by all 
the Romans. He came up to the Consul with the direct 
manly bearing which had won for him the love and respect 
of all his men. 

44 Death cometh to every man upon this earth soon or 
late,” he said. 44 And it seems to me that no man can 
die better than by giving his life for the ashes of his 
fathers, the temple of his gods, the gentle mother who 
bore him, the wife who holds his baby to her breast, and 
the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame at Vesta’s 
altar. To save them from Sextus and his shameful deeds 
would be something worth dying for. Hew down the 
bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed that ye may. I, 
with two more to help me, will hold back the foe. 


Horatius 


“ In yon straight path a thousand 
May well be stopped by three. 

Now who will stand on either hand, 

And keep the bridge with me ? ” 

There was a moment’s silence, and then Spurius 
Lartius, a descendant of one of the oldest and proudest 
houses of Rome, sprang forward. 

“ Lo ! I will stand at thy right hand,” he cried; and 
he had hardly spoken when another man stepped forward 
and took his place at Horatius ’s side. This was Her- 
minius, a sturdy, strong man of fully as brave and proud 
a family as Spurius Lartius. 

“ And I will abide at thy left hand and keep the 
bridge with thee,” he said. 

The Consul’s heart glowed with pride in the three 
brave men as he looked at them standing so proudly 
before him. 

“ It shall be as you have said,” he cried, and straight- 
way the dauntless three went forth to stop the approach 
of the mighty army that was rolling on towards Rome. 
They knew that they were going out to almost certain 
death, but in those brave days Romans spared neither life 
nor limb, nor love nor gold in Rome’s quarrel, and so 
long as they could hold the narrow way until the bridge 
was hewn down and the city saved, they cared not though 
the deed should cost them their lives. 

So they went out, tightening their armour on their 
backs, and as they took their places on the farther side 
of the bridge, the Consul seized an axe. The rest of the 
city fathers followed his example, and then with hatchets 
and crowbars and anything else upon which they could 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

lay their hands, the Romans set to work to hew down the 
bridge. Rich men and poor men, soldiers and civilians, 
all worked side by side to destroy the way into the city 
before their foes should be upon them. Like Trojans 
they worked. 

Meanwhile the Tuscan armies came rolling slowly 
onward towards the bridge-head. Rank behind rank the 
endless forces lay, their bright armour flashing in the 
noonday light like the surges of a broad sea of gold. As 
the great host came before the walls of the city four 
hundred trumpets sounded, and every man’s spear was 
fixed ready to attack the defenders of the town. Then as 
the Tuscan ranks caught sight of the three men at the 
bridge’s head, gazing so calmly and silently at their foes, 
a great shout arose from the advancing army. Three men 
against all that vast array ! Rome had fallen indeed if 
this was all the defence the city could muster ; and three 
great chiefs came spurring forward from the vanguard of 
the enemy to make an end of the three solitary defenders 
and gain honour and glory for themselves. They sprang 
down from their horses as they reached the head of the 
bridge, and, drawing their swords and lifting high their 
shields, they flew to win the narrow way. 

But the Romans were not dismayed at the laughter 
of their foes. They were ready for battle, and as the 
three warriors sprang at them they raised their shields to 
ward off their blows and watched for an opportunity of 
striking home. Lartius, with his first stroke, hurled his 
opponent into the stream below. Herminius directly 
afterwards slew the warrior who had engaged him in strife, 
while with one fierce, fiery thrust brave Horatius brought 
the third man crashing down dead at his feet. 

270 


Horatius 

Then three more warriors, as brave and powerful as 
the first three, rushed to the attack, but once more the 
three Romans emerged from the conflict triumphant, 
while three more dead bodies lay on the ground before 
the bridge. And now there was no sound of laughter 
from the Tuscan ranks. Not more than three men abreast 
could enter that narrow ravine at a time, and brave as the 
Etruscans might be, none wished to be the next to lay 
down his life. The Romans held the advantage at 
present, and six spears’ length from the entrance the 
vanguard halted, while for a space no man came forth to 
win the narrow way. 

But suddenly a cry of “ Astur, Astur! ” was heard, 
and the ranks of the enemy divided to let the great Lord of 
Luna come striding through. Upon his great shoulders 
he bore an enormous shield, and in his hand he carried 
a fearful weapon which none but he could wield. For the 
Lord of Luna was a giant in strength and stature, and no 
man had ever yet been able to stand against him in open 
battle. 

He smiled, almost it seemed with approval, at the 
three brave Romans. Then he turned and eyed the ranks 
of Tuscany in scorn. 

“ Will ye dare to follow if Astur clears the way? ” he 
asked contemptuously. And then, whirling his mighty 
brand in both his hands, he rushed at Horatius and smote 
with all his strength. 

With shield and blade Horatius turned the blow, but 
yet the sharp steel, though it missed his helm, came too 
near, for it glanced downwards and gashed his thigh, and 
as the Tuscans saw the blood gush forth they raised a cry 
of joy. If Horatius were only out of the way, they 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

thought, they would soon be able to overcome the other 
two defenders. 

But Horatius was not out of the way yet. He reeled 
indeed from the force of the blow. For one brief moment 
he leaned against Herminius ; then, recovering himself 
quickly, before the giant could make good his advantage, 
he sprang, like a wild cat mad with wounds, right at 
Astur’s face. With a mighty thrust Horatius drove his 
sword home, and the great Lord of Luna fell crashing to 
the ground — dead ! 

“See!” cried Horatius in triumph. “See, fair 
guests, the welcome that awaits you! Which of your 
noble princes comes the next to taste our Roman cheer? ” 

At this haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran along 
the glittering van, a murmur of mingled wrath and shame 
and dread. There was no lack of noble princes, no lack 
of men of valour and skill at arms, for all the greatest 
and noblest men of Etruria were gathered before that 
fatal place. But all Etruria’s noblest felt their hearts 
sink as they looked at the dead men lying at the feet of 
the three dauntless defenders of the bridge. And they 
shrank back, troubled and dismayed, as boys might shrink 
who, while chasing a hare through the woods, had come 
suddenly upon a fierce old bear. 

There was none who would be foremost to lead the 
next attack. And for some moments the great host 
wavered backwards and forwards, as those behind cried, 
“Forward,” and those before cried, “Back.” Then 
at last one man strode out before the confused crowd; 
and when the three Romans saw him they raised their 
voices loudly in greeting, for this was someone whom they 
knew full well. 


272 



“Three times he came on in fury — three times he turned back in dread.” 



Horatius 


“ Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 

Now welcome to thy home ! 

Why dost thou stay and turn away ? 

Here lies the path to Rome.” 

Three times Sextus looked at the city, three times he 
looked at the dead men on the bridge. Three times he 
came on in fury — three times he turned back in dread. 
White with fear and hatred, he scowled at the mocking 
Romans, and as he stood hesitating, torn between his fear 
and hate, a cry rose up from the walls of Rome. Manfully 
had the citizens plied lever and axe while their brave 
defenders had held the foe at bay, and now the bridge 
hung tottering over the Tiber, the noble river which ran 
by the walls of Rome. 

“Come back, come back, Horatius!” cried the 
fathers loudly. “ Back, Lartius ! Back, Herminius ! Back 
ere the ruin fall ! ” 

Back darted Spurius Lartius, back darted Herminius, 
and as they passed they felt the timbers crack beneath 
their feet. But when they had reached the walls in 
safety, and, looking back, saw brave Horatius standing 
alone on the farther side, they would have crossed once 
more. But at that moment, with a crash like thunder, 
the bridge gave way and fell down into the surging waves 
of the river below. 

A shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome as the 
yellow foam of the river was splashed high above the 
houses. For a few moments the river struggled desper- 
ately with the mighty wreck, then with a bound the waters 
conquered, and battlement and plank and pier were 
whirled down headlong by the tide towards the sea. But 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

the shout of triumph died away as the Romans saw 
Horatius standing alone on the other shore, faint and 
weak from loss of blood, with thrice thirty thousand foes 
before him, and the broad river behind. 

“Down with him!” cried Sextus, rejoicing in his 
foe’s discomfiture; but Lars Porsena was of a more 
generous frame of mind. 

“ Yield thee, now yield thee to our grace ! ” he cried, 
but Horatius took no notice of either of them. He 
turned round as though not deigning to see the craven 
ranks who were clamouring for his blood now, but who 
had not dared to attack him until he was left wounded 
and alone. He said no word to Sextus, no word to Lars 
Porsena ; but he saw the white porch of his home far away 
on Mount Palatinus, and he spoke to the noble river that 
rolls by the towers of Rome. 

“ O Tiber ! Father Tiber ! 

To whom the Romans pray, 

A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms 
Take thou in charge this day ! ” 

he cried, and then sheathing his sword by his side even as 
he spoke, he plunged, with all his armour on his back, 
headlong into the tide. 

No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank. 
Friends and foes alike, dumb with surprise at this daring 
action, stood gazing with parted lips and straining eyes 
at the place where he had sunk. And when above the 
surge of the river his head was seen appearing, all Rome 
sent forth a cry of rapture, while even the ranks of 
Tuscany could scarcely forbear to cheer. 

But the river was swollen with months of rain, and 
274 


Horatius 

the current ran fierce and strong. Horatius was weak 
with pain and loss of blood, and weighed down with his 
heavy armour, and it seemed to the breathless onlookers 
as though it was impossible that he could ever gain the 
shore. Often they thought him sinking, but still again 
he rose. His brave heart would not allow him to give up 
the struggle, and it almost seemed as though the good 
river had heard his prayer and was helping to bear him 
up above the tide. 

“ Curse on him ! ” cried Sextus in fury. “ Will not 
the villain drown ! But for this stay we should have 
sacked the town before night! ” But Lars Porsena at 
his side rebuked him for his unchivalrous conduct towards 
a gallant foe. 

‘ 4 Heaven help him and bring him safe to shore! ” 
said the King, who was filled with admiration for the 
brave man. “ Surely such a gallant deed of arms was 
never seen before ! ” 

Still the gallant swimmer struggled on against the 
tremendous odds that faced him ; and suddenly, just as 
he had grown so exhausted that it seemed impossible to 
struggle any more, he felt the bottom beneath his feet. 
And then willing hands were stretched out to help him, 
and willing arms bore him safe to shore, and amid a 
scene of wild enthusiasm and excitement the brave soldier 
was carried shoulder-high through the river-gate, while 
the people laughed and shouted and clapped their hands 
and wept for joy around him. 

Rome was saved — saved principally by the bravery of 
Horatius, and the Romans did not soon forget their brave 
defender. They gave him of the public land as much 
as two strong oxen could plough from early morning 
275 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

till the light faded at night; and they set up a statue 
of him in the city where everyone might see it, and 
underneath in letters of gold was written the story of 
how he had kept the bridge against the foe. 

And though it all happened such a long, long time 
ago, yet still to the men of Rome the name of Horatius 
stands for all that is best and bravest in history, and 
Roman mothers still pray that their boys may grow up 
with hearts as brave and noble as the heart of the great 
hero. And in the long winter nights, when the cold 
north winds blow fiercely out of doors and the peasants 
gather round their roaring fires within, and while busy 
over their evening tasks recount the brave deeds that 
were done in the past, then — 

With weeping and with laughter 
Still is the story told, 

How well Horatius kept the bridge 
In the brave days of old. 


276 


The Courtship of Miles Standish 

I N the little town of New Plymouth in the Old 
Colony days there lived a small band of pilgrims who 
had crossed the seas in the Mayflower. They were 
Puritans who had left their homes in England and all 
the comfort of their old life to come to a new country 
in order that they might worship God in the way that 
they thought right. For they had suffered great persecu- 
tions in England, and if they remained they would be 
forced to do many things which they considered wrong. 

The little band of pilgrims had borne the hardships of 
the first winter in the strange land bravely, although many 
of their number had perished from cold and hunger. And 
now that spring had come, and life and hope had blos- 
somed anew, the little colony took fresh heart and set to 
work to cultivate the land and improve their primitive 
dwellings, strengthening them against the attacks of the 
hostile Indians who inhabited the country, and the cold 
they would have to endure again next winter. 

In the living-room of the house which he shared with a 
friend Miles Standish, the Captain of the little township, 
strode backwards and forwards, buried deep in thought. 
He was a small man, short of stature, but broad of 
shoulder, with muscles of iron. His face was brown as 
a berry, although his reddish hair and beard were already 
showing streaks of grey. He came of an old Lancashire 
277 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

family and had been a soldier from his youth. He had left 
a beautiful home in England, and had come with his wife 
and the other sturdy Puritan pilgrims to this new land 
for the sake of his faith. Although he had only passed 
one winter there, he had already suffered, for his wife, 
Rose, whom he loved dearly, had been one of the first to 
succumb to the cruel cold. She lay buried now under the 
field of waving green corn which the Captain could see 
from his window. That was yet another of the trials of 
these early colonists — they dared not bury their dead and 
tend their graves with the loving care and tenderness they 
would have wished. Indian scouts and spies were all about 
them. Already they had had more than one encounter 
with the red men, who, until they came, were the undis- 
puted owners of the country, and the pilgrims did not 
dare reveal to their enemies’ eyes how many of their 
number had succumbed to sickness and privation. 

The Captain’s thoughts were of his wife as he paced 
to and fro in the little room, and of one other woman 
besides, a woman whom he had lately learnt to like and 
admire and whom he was contemplating putting in his 
wife’s place. He felt that he could not endure much 
longer the loneliness and solitude he had experienced since 
his wife’s death; and he felt, too, that it would be no 
disrespect to his dead wife to put another woman in her 
place. Rose would understand, he thought to himself 
with a little sigh. 

John Alden, the other occupant of the room and of 
the house, was busily writing letters home to his people 
in England. He was many years younger than the bluff 
old Captain, indeed he was the youngest of all the men 
who had sailed in the Mayflower. He was very good to 
278 


The Courtship of Miles Standish 

look upon as he sat in the window, fair-haired, blue-eyed, 
with the open face and fresh complexion of the Saxon. 
He was a Puritan, too, although it was hardly for the 
sake of his convictions that he had joined the Mayflower 
pilgrims. It was more because of his love for Priscilla, 
the beautiful Puritan maiden, that he had left his home 
in far-away England and come across the seas. He was 
madly in love with her, though as yet he had been too 
shy to speak ; and now, as he sat writing his letters to go 
by the Mayflower , which was to sail for the old country 
on the morrow, almost every sentence he wrote contained 
a reference to her. “ Priscilla, Priscilla, Priscilla,” wrote 
his pen, until it almost seemed that it must shout the word 
aloud. 

Presently the Captain ceased his striding of the room. 
He took a volume from the rough bookshelf on the wall, 
and, sitting down, he began to turn over the well-thumbed 
pages. It was a translation of Caesar’s Commentaries, a 
book beloved by Miles Standish, as its worn pages showed. 
He turned over the leaves, reading his favourite passages 
over again; and presently he smote the open page with 
his hand, exclaiming in admiration : 

“A wonderful man was this Caesar! Here are you 
and I — one a fighter, and the other a writer. But here 
was this fellow who could both fight and write, and was 
equally skilful at both.” 

“Yes, indeed, as you say, he was as skilful with his 
pen as with his sword,” answered John Alden, looking 
up from his writing ; and he began to recount an anecdote 
he had once heard of Caesar’s ability to dictate seven 
letters at once. But the Captain was reading on, and he 
neither heard nor heeded his young friend’s remarks. 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“ See here,” he said. “ Do you know what he did 
once when the rearguard of his army retreated and the 
front began to give way? Why, he seized a shield from 
a soldier and put himself at the head of his troops in the 
most dangerous position of all. Then, calling to his 
captains to come forward, he himself led the advance 
against the enemy, thereby winning the day. That’s 
what I always say : If you wish a thing to be well done you 
must do it yourself. It’s no good leaving it to others.” 

John Alden made no reply to this. He had often 
heard the maxim before, for it was a favourite one of the 
old Captain’s. He went on with his writing, his pen 
flying over the paper, until at last his friend shut his book 
with a bang and turned towards him. 

‘ 4 When you have finished your work I have something 
to say to you,” he said. “ Don’t hurry, though, for I 
am not impatient. I can wait.” 

John Alden pushed his papers aside, saying with 
deference : 

“ What is it, sir? I am always ready to hear what- 
ever you wish to tell me.” 

The Captain fidgeted in his seat, looking red and 
embarrassed. Then he began to speak in a halting 
manner choosing his words with care. 

“ The Scriptures say it is not good for man to be alone, 
and every hour in the day since Rose died I feel that it is 
true. In my lonely hours I have often thought of the 
maiden Priscilla. She too has lost her all since her father, 
mother and brother died in the winter together. I 
watched her tending them, ever brave and patient and 
gentle, and I said to myself that if there are angels in 
earth as there are angels in Heaven, I have seen and known 
280 


The Courtship of Miles Standish 

two of them ! And now the angel Priscilla holds in my 
heart the place the other abandoned. I have thought 
about it long, but I have not dared to say a word, for some- 
how, though I am brave enough over other things, I am a 
coward over this. So I want you to go to the maiden for 
me, and tell her that the blunt old Captain offers her his 
hand and heart. Not in those words, you know. I want 
you to say it for me in the way you think best adapted 
to win the heart of a maiden. You have been bred as a 
scholar, and you have read in your books of the wooings 
of lovers — you will be able to say it in elegant language.” 

John Alden was aghast at his friend’s words. He had 
never dreamt of such a thing happening, never imagined 
for one moment, that his old friend would fall in love with 
Priscilla. For a moment he was too surprised and be- 
wildered and embarrassed to reply. Then, rallying his 
courage, he tried to hide his dismay by treating the subject 
lightly. He tried to smile, but he felt his heart grow sick 
and heavy as he answered, stammering rather than 
speaking : 

“ I should be sure to mar or mangle such a message as 
that. Remember your own favourite adage : if you want 
a thing well done you must not leave it to others.” 

But the Captain of Plymouth shook his head gravely, 
with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his 
purpose. 

“ The maxim is good, I do not gainsay it,” he said. 
“ But there are exceptions to every rule. Though I can 
march up to a fortress and demand its surrender, I dare 
not march up to a woman with such a proposal. I’m not 
afraid of a bullet, but I confess I’m afraid of a 4 No ’ point- 
blank from the mouth of a woman.” 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

Then he leant across the table and caught his friend’s 
hand, saying persuasively : 

“ Surely you will not refuse to do what I ask in the 
name of our friendship? ” 

John Alden, though torn with longing and misgiving, 
and still doubtful and reluctant, could not resist that 
appeal. He returned his friend’s handclasp warmly. 

“ The name of friendship is sacred,” he said. “ What 
you demand in that name I have not power to deny you.” 

So the strong will prevailed. Friendship conquered 
love ; and John Alden left the Captain and went forth 
on his errand. The birds were building in the trees and 
bushes, all around him was joy and hope and love and 
returning life ; but within his heart was bitter storm and 
conflict. 

“ Must I give up all my hopes? ” he cried aloud in 
anguish. “Was it only for this that I loved and waited 
and worshipped in silence? Have I followed her over 
the seas to these desolate shores only to lose her now? ” 

It was indeed a hard thing the Captain had asked of 
him ; but yet his friendship for Miles Standish was so 
great he could not refuse to do it, or in any way stand in 
his light. He must go to Priscilla and give her the 
message and endeavour to hide from her all his own love 
and longing. So through the woods he hurried on his 
mission, anxious only to reach the little wooden dwelling 
where Priscilla dwelt, and get the ordeal over. 

Priscilla was spinning when he reached her home; 
Alden could see her through the open doorway as he 
approached. The carded wool was piled to her knee like 
drifted snow in its purity and whiteness. A big psalm- 
book lay open on the girl’s lap, from which she had been 
282 


The Courtship of Miles Standish 

singing some of the old Puritan anthems. It seemed to 
John Alden that her beauty lighted up the humble room, 
making the little rude dwelling-place and the modest 
apparel she wore beautiful through the very loveliness of 
her face. He stood for a moment gazing at the picture 
she made as she sat before her wheel, then he stepped 
forward and entered the house. The hum of the spinning- 
wheel and Priscilla’s singing stopped on the instant. She 
sprang up with a happy smile as he entered the room and 
gave him her hand, exclaiming impulsively : 

“ I knew it was you as soon as I heard your step in 
the passage. I was thinking of you as I sat spinning.” 

Alden blushed red with delight at her words. He had 
plucked a nosegay of the mayflowers that were blossoming 
in the forest, and he handed them to her now in silence, 
for he could not trust his voice sufficiently to speak. Oh, 
if only he were not bound by his promise to Miles 
Standish? If only he might woo and win this sweet 
maiden for himself. Once, a few months ago, when he 
had come to pay her a visit in the midst of a great snow- 
storm, he had nearly asked her to marry him. If only 
he had spoken then it might not have been in vain — but 
now it was too late ! The golden moment had vanished ; 
and he stood before her silent and tongue-tied, and gave 
her the flowers for an answer to her greeting. 

The two sat and talked together for a little while, for 
Alden did not quite know how to open the subject on 
which he had come. As they talked Priscilla confided to 
the young man how lonely she was living all alone in 
the solitude of this strange land. Although he was so shy 
that he had not seen it, she loved John Alden dearly; 
and perhaps she was hoping that he might speak now and 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

ask her to be his wife ; for she had guessed long ago how 
much he loved her. So she opened her heart and spoke 
to him fully and freely of her loneliness ; and as he 
listened it seemed to Alden that the time had come to give 
her the Captain’s message. 

“ Indeed, I do not blame you for feeling lonely,” he 
said. “ Many stout hearts have quailed before this ter- 
rible winter ; and you are but a woman after all, and need 
a stronger heart to lean upon. And I have come to you 
now with an offer of marriage. A good man and a true 
one wishes to wed you — Miles Standish, the Captain of 
Plymouth.” 

Even the bluff old Captain himself could hardly have 
blurted it out more bluntly than did this clever letter- 
writer — the man of all others whom Standish had chosen 
to woo the maiden of his choice because he would know 
in what beautiful words to clothe the offer to make it 
acceptable to a girl’s imagination. Mute with amaze- 
ment, Priscilla stared at his face, her eyes wide with sorrow 
and wonder. She felt almost as though he had stunned 
her with a blow. 

For a few moments there was an ominous silence 
in the room. Then at last Priscilla spoke in a voice made 
cold and icy with indignation and hurt pride. 

“ If the great Captain is so very eager to wed me,” 
she said, “ why does he not come himself to woo me? If 
I am not worth the trouble of wooing, I do not think I 
am worth the winning.” 

John Alden began trying to make excuses for his 
friend. The Captain was busy, and he had no time for 
such things, he said ; but this explanation only made 
matters worse. 


The Courtship of Miles Standish 

“Such things!” flashed out Priscilla indignantly. 
“If he has no time for 4 such things,’ as you call them, 
before he is wedded, he will hardly be likely to find time 
for them afterwards. A woman’s affection is not a thing 
to be had only for the asking ! When one is truly in 
love one not only says it — one shows it. If he had shown 
me he loved me, this Captain of yours, old and rough 
though he is, he might perhaps have won me. But now 
it can never happen.” 

Full of distress at the way he had mismanaged his 
friend’s suit, Alden began to plead earnestly for him. 
He spoke of his courage and skill, his truth and honesty, 
and how, although he was sometimes rough in his manner, 
he was generous and kindly at heart. He was honourable 
and noble for all his hasty temper. Priscilla herself must 
remember how gently and tenderly he had helped to nurse 
the sick during the past winter. He was sometimes head- 
strong perhaps, and stern as a soldier must be ; but he was 
always to be appeased if he was taken in the right way. 
He was great of heart, although he was little of stature, 
and any woman in Plymouth — nay, any woman in 
England, even — might be proud and happy to be called 
the wife of Miles Standish. 

Alden put aside all thoughts of self as he pleaded his 
friend’s cause so eloquently. And as she listened to him 
praising his rival in simple, manly words a little smile crept 
into Priscilla’s eyes. A tender look came into her face, 
and as he paused for a moment she looked up at him 
archly, her eyes overrunning with laughter, and said in a 
tremulous voice that yet had a hint of mischief in it : 

“ Why don’t you speak for yourself, John? ” 

If she had pointed a pistol at him, Alden could not 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

have been more taken aback. For a moment he stared 
at her in utter amazement, then he turned and rushed 
out of the house like a man insane. For hours he wan- 
dered alone by the seashore, baring his head to the wind 
to cool the fire and fever of desire that Priscilla’s words 
had awakened within him. Fierce in his soul was the 
struggle between friendship and love. 

44 Is it my fault that she has chosen between us? ” 
he cried. 44 Is it my fault that he has failed and I am 
left the victor? ” But even as he said it he knew in his 
heart of hearts that though he might fairly be the victor, 
yet he could never take advantage of his victory while his 
friend trusted him. Priscilla was as lost to him as though 
she were indeed the wife of Miles Standish. 

As he paced restlessly up and down the sands, facing 
his future, he saw through the gathering dusk the shadowy 
form of the Mayflower, riding at anchor in the harbour, 
and suddenly he resolved what to do. On the morrow 
the Mayflower was sailing back to the land from whence 
she had come. He, John Alden, would sail with her, 
so cutting himself away from temptation — away from her 
whom he might no longer love, away from the friend in 
whose suit he had so grievously failed. 

Now that he had come to some determination he felt 
happier, and he hurried back to the house he shared with 
Standish to break the bad news. The Captain was sit- 
ting alone, absorbed again in the martial pages of Caesar, 
but he looked up eagerly as Alden entered the room. 

44 Well, how have you fared?” he said cheerily. 
44 You have been long enough coming and going. Sit 
down and tell me all that has happened.” 

Then John Alden told his friend all that had passed 


The Courtship of Miles Standish 

between him and Priscilla, softening down her refusal a 
little. He made a clean breast of everything ; but when 
he came to the part where Priscilla had spoken the words 
that were at once so tender and so cruel, 4 4 Why don’t you 
speak for yourself, John? ” the Captain sprang up and 
stamped angrily upon the floor until the weapons hanging 
on the wall clanged with a sinister sound. 

“John Alden, you have betrayed me!” he cried 
passionately. 44 You have betrayed me — me, Miles 
Standish, your friend — supplanted me, defrauded me ! 
You who have lived under my roof, fed at my board, 
drunk from my cup, you whom I have cherished and loved 
as a brother, to whose keeping I have entrusted my 
honour, my most secret and sacred thoughts — you have 
played traitor to our friendship ! Henceforward there is 
nothing between us, save implacable hatred ! ” 

He stormed up and down the room, raving in his rage 
and anger, refusing to listen to anything Alden strove 
to say in self-defence. But in the midst of his wrath a 
man appeared at the doorway, begging that he would 
come at once to a council of war. There were rumours 
abroad of Indian treachery, and Standish ’s anger cooled 
a little as he listened to the man’s tale. Then, without 
a further word to Alden, he buckled his iron scabbard 
round his waist, and, taking down his sword, he departed, 
the clank of the weapon growing fainter and fainter in 
the distance. 

Alden was left alone. He rose from his seat and 
looked out into the darkness, utter desolation in his heart. 
In one day he had lost the woman he loved and the friend 
for whose sake he had renounced her, and for a little while 
his misery was so acute that he felt he could not bear it. 

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But as the wind from the open window cooled his burning 
forehead softer thoughts came into his mind. He raised 
his eyes to Heaven, and folding his arms as in the days of 
his childhood, he lifted his aching heart and prayed in 
the silence of the night to the Father who ruleth over all 
and seeth in secret. Then, somewhat soothed and calmed, 
he lay down to rest, though not to sleep. 

Presently Miles Standish came clanking in. At the 
council it had been decided that he, with his little band of 
soldiers, was to depart the next day on an expedition 
against the hostile Indians. It might mean death, and 
the heart of the fiery old man softened a little as his eyes 
fell upon the form of his young friend. He came to the 
young man’s bedside, but after a moment’s hesitation he 
turned away. 

“ Better not to wake him,” he muttered. “ Let him 
sleep on. It is best, what is the use of more talking? ” 
For Alden lay still and feigned sleep, feeling that he could 
not face the Captain’s wrath again just yet. And the 
Captain did not come near him again. He extinguished 
the light and flung himself down, just as he was, upon his 
pallet ; and in the pale light of dawn Alden saw him arise, 
buckle on his armour and take his musket from the corner 
of the room, and then stride out of the door. The youth 
yearned to spring up and beg the pardon of the friend he 
had loved so truly. All the old friendship came back, 
but pride overmastered his nobler nature. 

“He was wrong; he ought to speak first,” he said 
to himself, and he let his friend go away in silence. But 
when he had left the house Alden arose too and hastened 
down to the beach and the harbour, where the Mayflower 
was getting ready to depart. 


The Courtship of Miles Standish 

Nearly all the inhabitants of the village were gathered 
on the shore to watch the departure of the vessel which 
had brought them to this land. Alden heard all the 
rumours that were going about — how Miles Standish was 
to lead the soldiers against the Indians, and how the little 
community would be left almost unprotected while he 
was gone. He had not time to ask many questions, for 
the boat which was to take the passengers out to the 
Mayflower was almost ready to go. The master was 
waiting with impatience while the people crowded about 
him, handing him their letters and pouring out messages 
for him to deliver to their friends across the sea. Alden 
stood with one foot on the gunwale, ready to spring in as 
soon as good-byes were all said and the boat pushed off. 
But as he looked backward to the shore he caught sight of 
Priscilla. She was standing a little apart from the crowd, 
and her eyes were fixed on him with a look so sad, so im- 
ploring, so reproachful, that with a sudden revulsion of 
feeling Alden ’s heart recoiled from his purpose. How 
could he go away and leave her alone and unprotected in 
the midst of danger and anxiety? He sprang back to 
shore, exclaiming to himself : 

“Here I remain! As my foot was the first that 
stepped on this rock at the landing, so shall it be last at 
leaving, so long as she is here and needs my care.” And 
he breathed a prayer of thankfulness that he had awakened 
from his madness before it was too late. 

He watched while those on board made their last fare- 
wells and then pulled off with strong oars to the May- 
flower, which lay a little way from the shore, and he waited 
until the Mayflower had rounded the point and set her 
sails for England. When the good ship was out of sight 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

the other villagers went back to their homes, but Alden 
lingered on the beach, watching the sparkle of the sun- 
shine on the waves, and thinking out a plan of life foK 
the future — the future which would have to be so strong, 
so brave, so patient and enduring. 

Suddenly, as he stood there musing, he heard his 
name called, and turning round he saw Priscilla standing 
close beside him. 

“ Are you so much offended that you will not speak 
to me? ” she said wistfully. “ Will you not forgive me 
for speaking as I did? I know I ought not to have said 
it, but sometimes when the heart is very full of emotion 
it does not take so very much to make it overflow. And 
yesterday, when I heard you praising Miles Standish, 
transforming his very defects into virtues and quite over- 
looking yourself in your praise of your hero, my feelings 
became too strong for me. But you will forgive me, 
will you not? Surely the friendship between us is too 
sacred and true to be so easily broken? ” 

“ I was not angry with you,” said Alden. “ I was 
angry with myself for having managed so badly the matter 
entrusted to my keeping.” 

“ No, you were angry with me for speaking so 
frankly,” said Priscilla. “And I was wrong; I freely 
acknowledge it. It is no secret to tell you that I like 
you, that I like to be with you and see you and speak with 
you ; and I was hurt and a little affronted when you urged 
me to marry your friend, even though he were the great 
Captain, Miles Standish. Your friendship is more to me 
than all the love he can give, were he twice the hero you 
think him ! ” 

She held out her hand to Alden with a wistful, plead- 


The Courtship of Miles Standish 

ing air, and Alden grasped it eagerly and said in a voice 
which he could not keep from trembling a little : 

“Yes, we must always be friends. And of all who 
offer you friendship you must let me be ever the first, 
the dearest and the nearest.’ ’ 

Then these two, reconciled again, walked homewards 
together. Priscilla’s heart was happy, for she could not 
help knowing that Alden loved her, even though for some 
reason he could not ask her to be his wife. And Alden 
was happier too, for though he was grieved at the loss of 
the Captain’s friendship, yet he, too, knew at last that 
Priscilla loved him, and would wait until he was free to ask 
her to marry him. 

So the summer passed away. Standish and his soldiers 
accomplished great deeds amongst the Indians, subduing 
them wherever he went, and driving them farther and 
farther from the little colony of Plymouth. News of his 
brave deeds came through to the village from time to time ; 
and once he sent home a terrible trophy — the head of a 
conquered Indian chief to be exhibited upon the roof of 
the fort. Priscilla shuddered when she saw this dreadful 
evidence of victory ; and thanked God that she had not 
married Miles Standish. She almost hoped that he would 
stay away, hunting the Indians for ever, for she dreaded 
lest he should come home from his battles and lay claim 
to her hand as the prize and reward of his valour. 

While Standish was thus winning fame abroad, Alden 
at home was working busily. He was building himself a 
new house. He made the walls straight and strong, and 
fenced it about with an orchard, and all the while he 
worked Priscilla’s image was ever before his eyes. When 
his day’s work was finished he would take the little path 
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through the woods that led to the girl’s lonely home, and 
there he would sit and watch her as she sat spinning, and 
the friendship between the two grew stronger and deeper 
with every week that passed. 

One afternoon in late autumn Alden sat in Priscilla’s 
little living-room, holding a skein of wool for her on his 
hands while she wound it into a ball with quick, deft 
fingers. They were laughing and talking together when 
suddenly they were interrupted by a messenger who 
brought them dreadful news. Miles Standish, the valiant 
Captain, the defender of the little township, was dead, 
killed by a poisoned arrow in the forefront of the battle. 

The man who brought them the news did not wait 
long. Having delivered his message, he ran on to carry 
the tidings elsewhere. Priscilla stood silent and still, 
staring at the place where the messenger had stood, while 
Alden sprang to his feet. Mingled with the pain and 
regret and sorrow he felt for the death of his friend was 
a wild sensation of relief, an awful delight in his freedom. 
Scarcely conscious of what he was doing, he flung away 
the skein of wool and clasped Priscilla’s motionless form 
in his arms, pressing her close to his heart as though now 
she were his for ever, and he would never let her go again. 
And Priscilla abandoned herself to his embrace, knowing 
only that her love and constancy were rewarded at last. 

So these two lives that had run thus far in separate 
channels, parted by strong barriers, but ever drawing 
nearer and nearer, rushed together at last like two mighty 
rivers, and one was lost in the other. 

A few weeks later John Alden and Priscilla stood 
together in the same little room. It was their wedding 
morning, and the sun shone brightly, as though blessing 
292 


The Courtship of Miles Standish 

them with its presence. The magistrate and the elders 
of the village were there, and most of the people of the 
town ; and Priscilla and her lover stood up before them 
and repeated the few simple words which made them 
man and wife. 

The service was ended, the bridegroom turned to his 
bride with a happy smile, when suddenly a form appeared 
on the threshold at the sight of which Alden started back, 
and the bride turned pale and hid her face against her 
husband’s shoulder. And the guests, turning towards 
the doorway, saw with amazement the form of Miles 
Standish waiting there. 

He was not dead after all — the report that had brought 
the news was false. But he had been wounded and ill, 
and was only now recovered enough to return to his home. 
For a long time he had been standing outside the door, 
watching the scene within, and as he had watched a soft 
and tender expression had passed over his clouded eyes. 
When the simple service was ended he had entered the 
room. The wedding guests shrank away in fear at first, 
for they thought it must be his spirit ; but the Captain 
strode across the room to Alden and grasped his hand. 

“ Forgive me,” he said, his voice convulsed with 
emotion. “ I have been hard and cruel, but now, thank 
God, all that is over. Never so much as now was I the 
friend of John Alden.” 

Alden clasped his old friend’s hand in both his own. 

“ All is forgotten between us save the dear old friend- 
ship,” he cried joyfully, “ and that shall ever grow older 
and dearer.” And then the Captain turned to Priscilla 
with a little smile. 

“I should have remembered the old adage,” he said. 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“ ‘ If you would be well served, you must serve yourself ! ’ 
And there is another, too, I might have remembered 
with advantage : ‘No man can gather cherries in Kent 
at the season of Christmas.’ ” 

Then the people came crowding around him, greeting 
him joyfully and asking how it was that he was there 
alive and well when they had mourned him as dead. They 
thronged about him, questioning, laughing and interrupt- 
ing one another, till the good Captain declared that he 
was quite overpowered and would far sooner break into 
an Indian encampment than come again to a wedding 
to which he had not been invited. And when Alden came 
to the door with a beautiful snow-white bull, which he 
had brought to carry Priscilla to her new home, he broke 
away from his friends, glad of the diversion. 

Alden lifted his bride on to the back of her beautiful 
steed, and then, surrounded by her friends, Priscilla set 
out on her wedding journey to the house her husband had 
built for her. The sun poured down through the golden 
autumn leaves, gleaming on the bunches of purple grapes 
that hung from the vine branches. It was like a picture 
of the old primitive ages, fresh with the youth of the 
world : a picture, old and yet ever new, of love, immortal 
in the endless succession of lovers. 

And so the bridal procession passed onward through 
the Plymouth woods. 


294 


Henry the Leper 

L ONG, long ago, in the little country of Swabia, 
there lived a rich prince named Henry of Hohe- 
V neck. The prince was all that was good and noble. 
He was handsome and manly in appearance, and he ruled 
over his wide lands with wisdom and justice, and was 
dearly loved by all his people. It seemed as though the 
young man might well look forward to a life of usefulness 
and happiness, but just as he reached the flower of his 
manhood he was stricken by a dreadful disease, the terrible 
plague of leprosy. 

Many were the doctors and physicians whom Henry 
consulted, but none could offer him any hope of recovery. 
For a few years, they told him, he would linger on in pain 
and torment ; and then, when the disease had swallowed up 
all his health and strength and beauty, he must surely die. 

But one day news was brought to the prince of a won- 
derful physician who lived in a distant town. This man 
had made some marvellous cures, people said, and Henry, 
who would not leave one stone unturned to find a remedy 
for his loathsome disease, hastened at once to consult him. 
But the physician shook his head. 

“ One thing could cure you,” he said, “ but it is such 
an impossible remedy that it is hopeless to look for it. 
You must make up your mind to endure patiently the 
affliction God’s hand has laid upon you.” 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

44 Oh, but tell me what the thing is? ” cried Henry. 

4 4 1 will give you wealth such as you have never even dreamt 
of if you will but bring me back my health and strength 
and cleanse my body of this foul disease.” 

4 4 All your gold and wealth cannot buy this cure,” said 
the physician, 44 and all my knowledge is unavailing to 
procure it for you. The one thing that might save you 
would be for an innocent virgin, one who is chaste and 
pure and modest in mind as well as in body, to offer 
freely her life in place of yours — to give herself up to a 
horrible and painful death in order that the blood from her 
young, unsullied heart might cleanse your blood. Nothing 
else can avail. And even were such a maiden found, who 
was willing to offer her life freely in your stead, yet are 
there few possessed of such courage and determination that 
they would not shrink from the ordeal when the moment 
came. And unless the sacrifice were made in utter 
willingness it would be made in vain.” 

Sadly and sorrowfully Henry turned away. Now he 
knew, indeed, that there was no hope for him. He could 
never find a maiden who was capable of such a tremendous 
act of self-sacrifice, and even if he did he could never ask 
her to die in his stead. There was nothing for him but to 
accept God’s will and wait patiently for release from his 
pain. 

Upon Prince Henry’s wide estate there was a little 
farm where dwelt a peasant and his wife and children. It 
was a beautiful, peaceful spot, and when Henry knew that 
he was doomed to die he came for shelter to the peasant’s 
humble roof. He felt that he coidd no longer bear the 
state and ceremony of his great castle. He wanted nothing 
except to be left in peace in some secluded place, where 


Henry the Leper 

none might see and pity his affliction. The peasant loved 
his lord and master dearly, and did all in his power to 
make him comfortable. He and his good wife felt 
honoured indeed to think that their lord should come to 
their house for refuge in his sickness and grief. 

The good man and his wife had a little daughter, a child 
just growing into maidenhood. She was sweet and fair to 
look upon, and so gentle in all her ways that all who saw 
her loved her. She waited upon Prince Henry with the 
utmost care and tenderness. Her brothers and sisters 
shrank away from the sight of the poor sick man with his 
disfiguring illness ; but the little maid, filled with pity for 
his suffering, would never shrink from him. She was 
always at hand to run his errands or to talk to him. Many 
a weary hour did she help to while away with her gay 
chatter, and soon Henry grew to love the girl dearly. He 
showered costly presents upon her, delighting in her 
wonder and gratitude, and surrounded by her loving care 
he felt that his pain was a little eased. 

It happened one night, as the two peasants sat with 
their master after the evening meal had been cleared away, 
that they begged the prince to tell them if he had done all 
that he could do to cure himself of his disease. And Henry, 
touched by their sympathy and love for him, opened his 
heart to them and told them what the physician he had 
last consulted had said, and how impossible was the cure 
he had told him of. The peasants listened to his words 
with great sorrow, and their little daughter, who was sit- 
ting quietly at the prince’s feet, listened too, with grief 
and wonder, for she had not before realised how terribly 
ill her dear master was. Her parents and the prince took 
little heed of her presence, for they counted her but a 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

child ; yet nevertheless the little maid took in every word 
they said. 

That night her father and mother were awakened by 
the child’s sobbing as she lay in her little bed at the foot 
of their couch. 

‘ 4 What ails thee, daughter?” they asked in alarm; 
but when they knew the cause of her grief, how the sick- 
ness and suffering of her dear lord lay heavily upon her 
mind, they bade her lie down again and sleep. 

“It is God’s will,” they told her. “It is as great 
pain to us as it is to thee ; but there is nought we can do. 
We must resign ourselves to the Lord’s hand, as our Lord 
Henry has done.” 

But though they quieted the little maid’s sobs for the 
time being, they had not quieted the grief of her mind. 
Day after day, and night after night, her trouble weighed 
upon her, until at last there was born into her child’s 
heart a great resolve. She was a maiden, young and 
innocent. She loved her lord with a love so great that 
she was willing to do anything in the world for his sake. 
Why should not she offer to give her life for him ? 

Once this thought came to her, her grief passed away. 
Her heart was lightened of its heavy load of sorrow, and 
but one doubt alone troubled her breast. She feared lest her 
lord would not accept her sacrifice ; that her parents might 
refuse to allow her to make the offer. And, indeed, when 
she told her father and mother of her resolve they made a 
loud outcry. At first they utterly refused to allow her 
to do this thing. But the maiden pleaded so earnestly 
with them, and used such eloquent words to urge her 
cause, that they were overcome with astonishment at the 
things she said, and, being simple, God-fearing folk, 


Henry the Leper 

thought that she must have been inspired by God’s own 
spirit to make this sacrifice. 

“We cannot go against God’s will,” they said 
tremblingly to one another ; and at last, with many tears 
and bitter misgivings they gave their little daughter leave 
to offer her young innocent life in exchange for her 
master’s. 

At daybreak the next morning the maiden hastened 
to Henry’s bedside. 

“ Do you sleep, my dear lord? ” she asked, stepping 
softly up to him. 

“ No, little wife,” he said tenderly — for such in play 
he often called her. “ But why are you awake so early 
to-day? ” 

“ My grief for you has kept me from sleeping,” 
answered the maiden. “ But now, take courage, for I 
have come to offer my life in exchange for yours. I 
myself heard you say that if a maid could be found who 
would of her own free will offer herself to die for you your 
health and strength might yet be restored. And I, my 
dear lord, love you so tenderly that this world holds no 
happiness for me when you are sick and ill. So I have 
come, freely and of mine own intent, to give my life for 
yours.” 

At first Henry would not hear of such a thing. His 
whole being revolted at the thought of letting this sweet, 
innocent child suffer a terrible death for him. He refused 
utterly to listen to her proposal, and though the girl 
begged and prayed him with tears to let her do this thing, 
he would not hear of it. But gradually, as the maid still 
continued praying, and her parents themselves came and 
begged him to accept her sacrifice, pointing out how much 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

more his life was worth than hers, his determination not 
to permit the sacrifice weakened. He was sick and ill and 
tired, and not in a condition to resist their importunities, 
and though he held out for a long time, yet at the last he 
was overborne by their entreaties and gave way. 

“ God knows how unwillingly I do this thing, ” he said 
wearily, “but how can I hold out against you all? In 
truth you must have heard God’s word bidding you to do 
this, and how can I resist God’s will? ” 

When she heard his words the maiden sprang into his 
arms, clinging to him and sobbing for joy, while her 
parents went sadly out of the room. They could not bear 
to think of the death that was coming to their dear child ; 
but yet they thought that it must be God’s will, and so 
strove to resign themselves to all the sorrow that was 
coming. 

Then the maiden was arrayed in fine silken garments 
and set upon a beautiful horse, and when she had taken a 
sorrowful farewell of her father and mother she rode forth 
with Prince Henry to the town where the great physician 
lived. Prince Henry rode in sorrow and sadness, 
although he was going to find new life. But the young 
girl’s face was full of a wonderful light, and her heart was 
filled with happiness to think that she was to be the means 
of bringing health and strength to her beloved master. 

The physician could hardly believe his ears when he 
heard that a maiden had been found willing to suffer all 
that he must do. He took the child aside and asked 
whether it was true that she was doing this thing willingly, 
and whether she had any idea of the terrible ordeal she 
must undergo. 

“ Remember,” he said, “ all your suffering .will do no 

300 


Henry the Leper 

good to the Prince if, when the moment comes, you 
blanch or shrink. Think what it will mean. You must 
lie down before me naked on a table ; and then, when I 
have bound you hand and foot, I must cut your heart out 
of your breast. Bitter the pain will be, terrible the trial ! 
Have you indeed the strength and courage to do this 
thing? Speak but the word and I will let you go free, 
even now.” 

But the maiden smiled up into his face. 

“ Indeed, sir, I have the courage,” she said simply, 
“ and I know that I shall not shrink. The love that I 
bear my dear lord is so great, that however great the suf- 
fering may be I will cheerfully endure it, so that he may 
live and be healed of his pain. God will give me strength 
to bear the trial.” 

Looking into her face the physician saw that wdiat she 
said w r as true, and, marvelling at her courage and 
devotion, he went into the outer room where Prince Henry 
was sitting, his head bowed on his hands in misery and 
woe. 

“Take heart,” he said to the Prince. “New life 
shall be yours. The maiden does indeed love you enough 
to offer her life freely for you. By her death you shall 
be made whole.” 

Prince Henry answered not a word. His heart was 
too full of shame and anguish for speech ; and while he 
sat struggling to find utterance, the physician turned from 
him and went into the inner room, locking the door fast 
behind him. 

Still Henry sat in silence, scarcely realising what was 
about to happen ; while in the inner room the physician 
stripped the brave little maid of her clothing, and bound 
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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

her fast, by hand and foot, to a table. Then he took out 
a long, cruel-looking knife and began to sharpen it upon 
a stone before he began the sacrifice. 

But when the sound of the knife being sharpened came 
to his ear Prince Henry awoke from his trance. He 
realised all at once the awfulness of the deed that was being 
done for his sake ; and he knew that no life would be worth 
living, however strong and beautiful it might be, if it 
meant the loss of the child who had grown so dear and 
sweet to him. He sprang up and flung himself against 
the locked door. 

44 Stop, stop ! ” he cried in anguish. 44 You shall not 
do this thing ! Open to me at once ! Open to me, I 
say ! ” 

But the physician would not open the door. 

44 Not so,” he answered from within the room, “I 
have somewhat of weight to do before I open the door.” 

44 Open to me ! Open, I say ! ” cried Henry, beating 
madly upon the panels. And the outcry he made was so 
great that at last the physician was compelled to open the 
door. When Henry saw the girl lying there, bound hand 
and foot, ready to give up her life for his sake, his feelings 
grew too strong for him, and he turned his face away, 
sobbing with emotion. 

44 It shall not be,” he said to the physician. 44 1 will 
pay you all that you would have charged, all that you may 
demand ; but the brave maiden must not die. Rather will 
I suffer the pains that God has laid upon me.” 

Then the physician, with a great gladness in his heart 
that he need not do this horrible thing, unbound the 
maiden and lifted her up. The maid was overwhelmed 
with grief that she might not be allowed to complete her 

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Henry the Leper 

sacrifice; and she begged Prince Henry with tears and 
prayers to let it take place, but this time Henry was 
firm. 

44 It shall not be,” he said, and with his own hands he 
clothed the maid in her garments again. Then, in spite 
of all that she could say, he set her once more upon her 
horse, and, having given the physician all the money he 
had promised him, he started out to take the child back to 
her home. And this time, although he was going to cer- 
tain death, his heart was at rest within him. He was not 
healed from his bodily sickness, it is true, but he was freed 
from the terrible grief of heart and mind that had been 
his on the outward journey. 

But though her master was happier than she had ever 
seen him, all the rest of the day the brave little maiden 
wept and mourned that she might not make the sacrifice 
for her lord. And when they came to the little inn where 
they were to pass the night she went at once to her 
chamber and sank down on her knees beside the bed, sob- 
bing and praying to God to allow her to help the prince 
whom she loved so dearly. All night long she wept and 
prayed, and her prayers were answered in a wonderful 
manner. For in the night, while he slept, Prince Henry 
was cured of his sickness; and when he awoke the next 
morning he found that his body, which only yesterday had 
been so full of loathsome sores, was as clean and pure and 
whole as the body of a little child. 

Full of joy and wonder, he hastened to the maiden’s 
room to tell her of the good news. And when the child 
saw the answer that God had sent to her prayers she fell 
on her knees and poured out her praise and thanks. 

44 The Lord God hath done this thing,” she cried. 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

“Now let me take with love and gratitude the life which 
He hath given me back.” 

That was a happy journey home, back to the little 
cottage where the maiden’s parents dwelt. And who 
can tell the joy of the father and mother when they 
received their dear daughter, safe and well, into their arms 
again, and saw their master, restored to health, standing 
at her side. 

Of course, you can guess the ending of the story — how 
the prince married the maiden who had dared so much for 
him, and how the humble little peasant girl became a great 
lady, the greatest in the land. Many a happy year did 
these two, who loved one another so dearly, live together, 
ever doing good and winning the love and reverence of 
all who were round about them, until at last they went 
together upon their final, happy journey. 

Till, hand in hand, at length they trod 
Upward to the Kingdom of God. 


304 


The Sensitive Plant 


I N a beautiful garden there once grew a sensitive plant, 
which was fed by the winds with silver dew. Every 
morning it opened its tender, fan-like leaves to the 
sun ; every evening as the darkness fell it closed them 
again beneath the kisses of night. 

It was springtime in the garden, and everywhere was 
felt the spirit of love. The flowers awoke from their long 
winter’s sleep, the snowdrop first, then the violets, wet 
with the warm rain of April, their sweet breath mingled 
with the fresh, warm odours of the awakening earth. 
After the violets came the wind-flowers, the tulips and 
the narcissi — the tall, lovely blossoms that gaze on their 
own eyes in the mirror of the stream until they die of 
longing for their own loveliness. Then came the lilies of 
the valley, their tremulous bells sheathed in pavilions of 
tender green ; the hyacinths, purple and white and blue ; 
roses, unveiling their glowing beauty, petal by petal ; pale 
garden lilies, lifting up their moonlight-coloured cups to 
the sky ; the jessamine with its faint delicate smell, and 
the tuberose, the sweetest flower of all for scent. Many 
other lovely flowers from every country and climate grew 
in this wonderful garden. 

A little silver stream ran through the garden, shaded 
by the sweeping, overhanging boughs of the tall trees that 
grew upon its banks. Broad white water-lilies lay on the 

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My Book of Stories from the Poets 

surface of the water, while the sunlight, golden and green, 
glinted down through the interlaced branches above them. 
Paths of lawn and moss wound here and there, some open 
to the sun, others hidden in the cool shade beside the 
river. They were all paved with daisies and other dainty 
flowers, while beside them were pavilions of blossoms, 
shading the glow-worm from the evening dew. 

All the flowers in the garden were happy and smiling, 
lifting up their faces to heaven and sharing one another’s 
joy in the sun’s warm rays. Each blossom seemed to 
breathe out life and love; but of all the beautiful plants 
there, none seemed to feel the love and joy more than the 
sensitive plant, which could show so little of the happiness 
it felt. For the sensitive plant had no blossom oi its 
own. It had no radiance and colour to gladden the eyes, 
no beautiful scent to shed on the summer air. Yet its 
deep heart was more full of love than the hearts 
of any of the other blossoms ; more than they could ever 
do, it longed for the beauty of the world, the beauty which 
it did not possess. And, although it could only give love 
and never receive it, there was no plant in all the garden 
that was happier. The light winds which blew so ten- 
derly amongst its leaves, the beams of light shed by sun 
and moon and star, the insects, swift and free and beauti- 
ful, which passed over the petals of the neighbouring 
flowers ; the hot, quivering vapours of noontide — all were 
like ministering angels to the sensitive plant, bringing joy 
almost too great to bear. And when the day was over 
and evening descended from the sky, when the air was 
filled with rest and love and deep delight, when the birds 
and beasts and insects were silent and hushed, save only 
for the nightingale and the creatures which waken in the 


The Sensitive Plant 

darkness, then the sensitive plant was gathered up into 
the bosom of the twilight, the earliest child of all to be 
lulled to sleep in the embrace of night. 

The garden was tended by a lady whose mind and heart 
and spirit were as tender and lovely as her face and form 
were beautiful. From morn till eve she worked amongst 
her flowers ; and it seemed as though they knew and loved 
her, and responded to her care for them. She had no 
companion, but yet she was not lonely or sad, for all the 
living world around was her delight. The flowers rejoiced 
in the sound of her light feet, and glowed beneath the 
touch of her gentle fingers. She brought water from the 
stream for those that drooped and fainted under the sun’s 
hot rays ; she emptied the cups of the flowers which were 
weighted down with thunder-rain, and lifted their heads 
with tender hands, sustaining the languid ones with rods 
and osier bands. 

The gnawing worms and the insects which did harm 
and damage to her blossoms she would gather into a basket 
and bear them far away into the woods, where they could 
no longer hurt her garden. She carried them gently and 
tenderly, for she would not cause them any pain that she 
could help. She knew, poor things, that if they did ill 
it was of innocent intent. But the bees and the butter- 
flies and the soft moths that kissed the lips of her flowers 
and wrought only good, she did not touch. And the 
insects seemed to have no fear of her ; but hovered around 
her like attendant angels as she moved about the garden. 
All through the spring and summer this gentle lady lived 
and worked in her garden, tending the flowers as though 
they had been her own children and she their mother. But 
ere the first leaf turned brown in the autumn she died. 

307 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

For three days the flowers in the garden waited for the 
coming of their lady. Every hour they missed her sweet 
presence, none more so than the sensitive plant, who had 
loved her best of all. But on the fourth day they felt the 
heavy steps of the bearers as they carried the mistress of 
the garden to her last resting-place ; and although they 
did not understand in so many words what had happened, 
yet they seemed to know that they would never see their 
dear lady again. 

From that hour all the flowers in the garden slowly 
drooped and died. The roses shed their gold and crimson 
petals, the lilies bowed their pale heads to the ground, the 
leaves, brown and yellow, and grey and white, were borne 
away on the cold wind as it whistled through the trees. 
The water-lilies died in the stream. The rain came and 
beat down all the plants that yet remained, leaving them 
lying all wet and sodden and rotting upon the cold, dank 
earth. Loathsome weeds began to grow where no weed 
had ever been allowed to rear its head before, thistles, 
henbane, docks, nettles, darnels and rank hemlock. Fungi 
sprang up from the decaying ground, with agarics and 
mildew and mould ; and in the riveret a great bank of 
weeds and scum blocked the flow of the water, damming 
it with roots all knotted and twisted, which looked like 
great slimy water-snakes below the surface. 

The sensitive plant felt the change in the garden more 
than the other flowers. The other flowers just lay down 
and gave up their lives. But the sensitive plant shrivelled 
together, and in its heart it wept great tears of bitter 
regret. The leaves fell, and the sap shrank down to its 
roots ; and then winter came and laid his cruel, icy fingers 
upon the poor, bruised, broken plant. All the other 
308 


The Sensitive Plant 

flowers were dead by this time; even the weeds had fled 
beneath the earth. Only the broken-hearted sensitive 
plant could not die, but lived on through all the bitter 
torture of frost and snow and icy winds and heavy rains, 
until at last winter had pity upon it and killed it ; and its 
sad, lonely spirit was at rest with all the lovely things that 
had once flourished in the beautiful garden. 

When winter had gone, spring came back, and the 
weeds and the toadstools and the docks and the darnels 
sprang up again, a strong, vigorous growth which overran 
the once lovely place, choking the life out of the few 
flowers that tried to come back to life when they felt the 
sun’s warm rays. It seemed as though the lovely garden 
had vanished for ever. 

But it was not so. Men, with their eyes that can see 
such a very little way, with ears that can hear so little of 
the real music of the universe, with their minds that can 
so little understand the great truths that are all around 
them — men may have thought that the garden and the 
lady who walked there, and the sensitive plant and all the 
other lovely flowers, were dead. But they were not dead 
really. Nothing that is lovely and beautiful and sweet 
and good and true can perish for ever. The garden is 
there still, although concealed from mortal eyes, and all the 
fair shapes and the sweet odours and the lady who tended 
the flowers are in it yet — only a thousand times lovelier, 
a thousand times fairer, a thousand times happier than 
before. And there, surely, the sensitive plant, with its 
great loving heart flourishes still, breathing out its love 
and joy, and tasting perhaps of a greater happiness than 
it ever knew on earth. 


Alice Fell 


I T was a bitterly cold winter’s evening, almost too cold 
and rough for passengers to be abroad. But in spite 
of the wind and rain a coach was travelling fast along 
the road to Durham. The post-boy urged his horses for- 
ward, for he was anxious to reach the shelter of the inn 
where they were to stop for the night ; and the gentleman 
who sat within the coach drew his cloak more closely about 
him and longed for the end of the journey. Suddenly, 
above the noise of the rain and wind a cry fell on his ear. 

He listened intently. It seemed to him that the sound 
followed with the coach. Again and yet again he heard 
it, and at last he leant out of the carriage window and 
shouted to the post-boy to stop. 

The post-boy drew up his horses. He and his passenger 
both listened intently, but the sound had quite ceased, 
and after a few minutes the gentleman told the boy to 
drive on. Soon the horses were galloping fast through 
the wind and rain again. But after a short space the 
mysterious sound came once more, and once more the 
gentleman made the driver stop. 

“ Where can this piteous crying come from? ” he said, 
and this time he alighted from the coach and with the 
post-boy’s assistance began to search for the cause of the 
noise he had heard. The night was very dark, for the 
clouds had overshadowed the moon that should have been 


310 


Alice Fell 

shining, but with the aid of one of the carriage lanterns 
the mystery was soon solved. Perched up behind the 
chaise sat a little ragged girl. She was crying as though 
her heart would break, although when the coach stopped 
she tried to stifle her sobs. 

The gentleman put his hand on her shoulder kindly 
and peered into her face. 

“ What ails you, my child? ” he said ; but all the child 
could answer was : 

“ My cloak, my cloak ! ” 

The gentleman looked round him in a bewildered 
manner, but presently he discovered the cause of the little 
one’s grief. Entangled in the wheel of the coach was a 
weather-beaten garment, so old and worn that it was 
scarcely fit to clothe a human being. Together the post- 
boy and the gentleman unloosed it from the wheel, 
though it was with some difficulty that they did so, for 
it was wound round and round the spokes. When at last 
they had freed it they found it to be even more ragged 
and miserable than they had thought — indeed, it was only 
fit for a scarecrow to wear. Even before its accident it 
could never have been a very beautiful garment. But its 
little owner evidently valued it deeply, for she sobbed 
and sobbed and refused to be comforted, in spite of all 
the consoling things the gentleman could say. 

By questioning the child closely the gentleman dis- 
covered that she, like himself, was bound for the town of 
Durham. She was an orphan, she told him, and her 
name was Alice Fell. The gentleman lifted her into the 
coach and seated himself beside her, while once more the 
post-boy urged the horses on. The gentleman tried his 
hardest to comfort his fellow-traveller, but the child 
311 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

sobbed on and on. She could hardly have cried more if 
she had lost her only friend, yet all this grief and distress 
was but for a miserable, old tattered cloak ! 

At last the town of Durham was reached, and the 
chaise drew up at the tavern door. The gentleman carried 
Alice into the inn and told the landlord of her trouble, 
then he drew out a handful of money and gave it to the 
man. 

“ Buy her a new cloak for the old,” he said ; “ and let 
it be of duffle grey, as warm and thick and pretty as a 
man can make or sell.” 

The next day little Alice Fell was a proud creature 
indeed. Clad in her new warm cloak she went her way, 
happier than she had ever been before in her sad, lonely 
little life. She no longer mourned for the loss of her old 
ragged garment, for now she had another, finer and 
warmer than she had ever dreamed or hoped to possess ; 
and, better than all, she had found kind friends who would 
look after her and see that she never wanted for anything 
again. 


The Pet Lamb 


jITTLE snow-white mountain lamb was 



wandering disconsolately on the hillside. Many 
flocks were feeding on the mountains, but this 


little creature was owned by none. Its mother was dead, 
and, hungry and lonely and desolate, it wandered to and 
fro, sending forth its piteous bleating cry, as sad and 
miserable and deserted as a lamb could be. 

None of the other mother sheep would come to its 
rescue, and the poor little thing was in grave danger of 
dying from cold and starvation or of falling a prey to 
the fierce eagles which had their home in the crags of the 
highest mountains. But, fortunately for the poor little 
creature, a shepherd came by and found it, and taking it 
up tenderly in his arms, he carried it home to his little 
daughter Barbara. 

Little Barbara Lewth waite was a beautiful child, and 
as sweet and gentle in nature as she was lovely to look 
upon. She was delighted with her new playmate, and 
took it to her heart at once. A mother sheep that had 
lost her own little one was chosen to take care of it until 
it shoidd grow old enough to care for itself, and Barbara 
spent nearly all her play hours with her new pet. 

Soon the lamb was old enough to be taken from its 
foster-mother, and during the warm summer weather it 
was tethered out of doors under a tall beech tree, which 


313 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

gave it shelter from sun and wind and rain, while every 
morning and evening Barbara herself would bring it 
draughts of new milk. The grass under the beech tree 
was green and tender, and the little lamb had a happy 
life nibbling the fresh young shoots and frisking gaily 
about as far as his long rope would allow him. But the 
happiest moments of his day were when his little mistress 
came to visit him. He would run to meet her whenever 
she appeared, and when she had to go away he would 
strain after her, saying as plainly as though he could speak 
to her in words how dearly he loved her. 

One day a poet came by and saw the two together, 
the snow-white lamb and the little maiden kneeling 
at his side. The child, all unconscious that she was being 
observed, was speaking persuasively to her pet, urging 
him to take the food which she had brought him, and the 
poet, charmed at her lovely face and pretty voice and 
manner, weaved a song about her as he stood watching 
the scene. 

“Drink, pretty creature, drink,” coaxed Barbara; 
and the watcher weaved the words into his song and put 
into his poem all the w r ords that he imagined the child 
might say to her little pet : 

“ What ails thee, young one ? What ? Why pull so at thy 
cord ? 

Is it not well with thee ? well both for bed and board ? 

Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; 

Rest, little young one, rest ; what is’t that aileth thee ? 

“ Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky ; 

Night and day thou art safe — our cottage is hard by. 

Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain ? 

Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee again.” 

314 


The Pet Lamb 

The poet watched enchanted until the little girl had 
said good-bye to her playmate and left the spot. Then 
he too turned homewards, repeating to himself the lines 
he had made, turning them over and over in his mind, 
and polishing them here and there. And as he walked 
along it seemed to him that after all the poem was not 
his. More than half of it belonged to little Barbara, who 
by her tender words and gentle movements had suggested 
it to him. 

Again and once again did I repeat the song ; 

“ Nay,” said I, “ More than half to the damsel must belong, 
For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a 
tone, 

That I almost received her heart into my own.” 


315 


Count Gismond 


~ r OUNG girl once lived in an old castle in 



France. She was the daughter of an ancient and 


honourable house, but her father and mother 


were dead, and her only relations were the two girl 
cousins, both of them older than she, with whom she now 


dwelt. 


The maiden was very beautiful, and because of this 
her cousins were jealous of her, though they were obliged 
to try and hide their jealousy, for the girl was so gay and 
happy and sweet that everybody loved her — at least, 
nearly everybody. There was one man who hated her, 
Count Gauthier, a great friend of the two cousins, and 
he joined with the jealous women in scheming to injure 
the girl who was such a thorn in the flesh to them. 

Count Gauthier had not always hated the maiden. 
Once he had loved her passionately, but his was no true 
love, and the girl shrank from him and would have nothing 
to do with him. And as from an unworthy love springs 
ever the deepest hatred, so now the man who had once 
sworn such vows of loyalty and fealty thought only how to 
work the overthrow and humiliation of the innocent young 
girl. And with the help of the girl’s two cousins he laid 
a plan which for cruelty and treachery could hardly have 
been surpassed. 

The girl’s birthday was not far off, and in her honour 


316 


Count Gismond 

her cousins arranged for a great tournament to be held 
at the castle, at which she, crowned as the Queen of 
Beauty, was to present the prizes. The morning dawned 
bright and fair, and the girl, who at heart was scarcely 
more than a child, stood laughing and talking happily as 
she was dressed for the great occasion. Her two cousins 
assisted at her toilette, helping to adjust the roses in her 
garland, and answering her merry chatter with words as 
gay and light-hearted as her own. No hint they gave by 
look or word of the wicked scheme they had planned with 
Count Gauthier. And when their little cousin was ready 
they took her arms affectionately and led her downstairs 
between them. 

The birthday queen took her throne in state under the 
canopy prepared for the queen of the tournament. Her 
friends and acquaintances gathered round her, talking and 
laughing and offering their congratulations upon her birth- 
day honours. All around was bright and gay, and every- 
body seemed in the highest spirits. The gayest of all was 
the little queen herself, who never dreamt, poor child, of 
the pain and shame in store for her. Count Gauthier had 
chosen the place and the time well. Half the countryside 
would be there to witness the girl’s humiliation. 

Presently the hour agreed upon by the conspirators 
came. The tournament was over, and the spectators came 
crowding round the queen’s throne, waiting for her to 
present the crown of victory to the knight who had over- 
come. The heralds, indeed, were just bringing the crown 
to present it to the queen, when suddenly Gauthier stalked 
forward, holding out his hand with a menacing gesture. 

“Stay! ” he thundered. “Bring no crowns here! 
She is not worthy to be Beauty’s queen. She is no inno- 
317 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

cent maiden, as you suppose, but a wicked woman, steeped 
in sin and shame. Shall she queen it here over this 
honourable assembly? A thousand times no! For 
honour’s sake, no crowns, I say! ” 

The little queen stared at him in dismay, aghast at his 
accusation. She made no answer to his wicked words. 
It seemed to her that there could be no answer to such a 
monstrous statement. Pale and trembling, she turned to 
her cousins, expecting that they would take her in their 
arms and indignantly deny the Count’s insinuation. But 
when she met their hard, cold faces she saw that there 
was no love or pity for her there. They looked at her 
with triumphant smiles of cruel satisfaction, and the poor 
child shrank in terror from their vindictive glance. On all 
sides she saw none but cold, suspicious faces. Those who 
had been the warmest in hailing her Queen of Beauty were 
now the first to turn away from her in her distress. And 
Gauthier, with a smile of malice, stood with folded arms, 
gloating over her grief and shame. 

Suddenly a knight strode out from the crowd and 
stepped in front of the throne. The girl had never seen 
him before, but as she caught a glimpse of his face some- 
thing seemed to bring hope and comfort to her heart. It 
was Count Gismond — she knew him from the bearings on 
his shield — a knight so brave and pure and honest that all 
men held him in respect. He faced Gauthier now with 
angry indignation. 

“ You lie ! ” he said, and struck the false count a blow 
across his mouth with the back of his hand. 

At the sound of his voice the young girl knew that she 
was saved. It seemed to her that God Himself must have 
sent this young knight to help her, and a great sense of 

318 


Count Gismond 

peace and contentment came into her heart. There was 
something about Gismond which always inspired those 
around him with confidence, and the maid whose cause he 
was now championing was no exception to the rule. She 
watched as the armourers braced on his greaves and 
riveted his haubeck, while the heralds made ready the 
space where the combat was to be fought. For in those 
days justice was done in a very rough and ready fashion. 
“ Heaven would defend the right,” the people said, and 
so the two knights would fight till one of them was over- 
thrown, and he who conquered would have proved that 
his cause was true. 

The little frightened queen of the tournament was not 
frightened now. From the very first she had no doubt of 
the issue of the coming conflict, and her confidence was 
justified. Almost before the trumpets calling the two 
knights to battle had finished sounding, Gauthier lay upon 
the ground with Gismond ’s sword through his heart. 
Then, while as yet the spectators hardly realised that the 
fight was over, Gismond dragged the dying man to the 
feet of the maid he had injured. 

“Here die!” he said. “But not before you have 
made full confession, lest you pass from my first to God’s 
second death. Say, hast thou lied? ” 

And Gauthier, lifting his hand feebly towards heaven, 
said in a voice, which, though weak, was clear enough for 
all to hear : 

“ I have lied — to God and her.” 

Then he fell back upon the ground, dead. 

Gismond turned to the maid he had defended, and sank 
upon his knees. He had fallen in love with her, and a 
great tender pity for her had filled his heart. 

318 


My Book of Stories from the Poets 

4 4 Will you be my wife? ” he asked her in words so 
low and gentle; and the little queen, who had fallen in 
love with him as soon as ever she set eyes upon his face, 
could find no voice to answer. She could only hold out 
her hands to him beseechingly, and Gismond, rising to his 
feet, took them and caught her to his breast. 

And then, amidst the shouts of the people, he led her 
forth, never to return, for he would not leave his bride 
any longer in the home where she had been so shamed and 
insulted. 

The two cousins lived on in their castle, untroubled 
any more by the beauty of the little maid they had envied 
so. Count Gauthier was dead, as dead as the lie by which 
he had tried to injure an innocent child. And far away 
in their beautiful home Count Gismond and his wife lived 
in almost perfect happiness. Two lovely little boys were 
born to them. 

The mother would often watch her children at their 
play, loving to trace in their features some resemblance 
to their father, who to her was the most perfect gentle 
knight that ever carried sword. And often when she 
thought of that terrible day when she stood alone and 
defenceless before the mocking scorn of her enemies she 
would lift her heart to God with a cry for him who had 
come to her rescue. 

“ Christ God, who savest men, save most 
Of men Count Gismond, who saved me ! ” 

she would say, and a prayer of thanksgiving would pass 
her lips for the husband whom she loved so dearly. 


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